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THE 


COMPLETE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


THOMAS    HOOD: 


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EDITED    BY 

EPES     SARGENT. 

VOL.    I. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON    AND   COMPANY. 

MDCCCLTII. 


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BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SA]MPSOX  AND  COMPANY. 

MDCCCLVII. 


PEEFACE. 


As  confidently  as  any  one  of  his  contemporaries  Thomas 
Hood  may  claim  his  place  among  the  Standard  Poets  of 
Great  Britain.  The  present  edition  of  his  poetical  works 
contains  all  the  poems  included  in  the  two  volumes  edited 
at  his  request,  and  published  in  I^ondon  by  Mr.  Moxon. 
To  these  we  have  added  a  number  of  poems  collected  from 
other  reliable  sources,  which  were  probably  excluded  from 
the  ISIoxon  edition  by  outstanding  copyrights,  with  which 
their  republication  would  interfere.  This  may  therefore 
be  regarded  as  the  most  complete  collection  of  Hood's 
Poetical  Works  yet  published. 

His  friends  assert  that  in  the  twenty  years  during  which 
Hood  was  writing  for  the  press  he  never  penned  a  line 
intended  to  give  pain  to  an  individual,  or  which  he  might 
himself  wi.^'h  to  blot.  This  is  the  praise  which  Lyttelton 
avvardod  to  the  author  of  '•'  The  Seasons,"  and  is  almost  too 
much  to  ascribe  to  any  individual  who,  like  Hood,  was  a 
raan  of  ardent  feelings  and  exposed  to  strong  temptations. 
It  is  cnougli  that  we  are  able  to  say  of  him,  as  Walter  Scott 
said  of  Goldsmith  —  that  his  wreath  is  unsullied. 

A* 


X 


CONTENTS. 


LIFE  OF  nOOD, XI 

POEMS. 

The  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairiea, 3 

Hero  and  Leander, 43 

Lycus,  the  Centaur, 73 

The  Two  Peacocks  of  Bedfont, 87 

The  Two  Swans, 94 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram, 104 

The  Elm  Tree :  A  Dream  in  the  Woods, 112 

The  Haunted  House, 129 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs, • 143 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt, 147 

The  Lady's  Dream, 150 

The  Workhouse  Clock 154 

The  Lay  of  the  Laborer, 157 

Miscellaneous. 

Fair  Ines, 163 

The  Departure  of  Summer, 165 

Ode :  Autumn, 170 

Song,  for  Music, 172 

BaUad, 172 

Hymn  to  the  Sun, 173 

To  a  Cold  Beauty, 174 

Buth, 175 

The  Sea  of  Death, 176 

Autumn, t • 177 

Ballad, 177 

I  Remember,  I  Remember, i 178 

BaUad, 179 

The  Water  Lady 181 

The  Exile, 182 

To  an  Absentee, i 183 

Song, 183 


L, 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Ode  to  the  Moon, 184 

To , 187 

The  Forsaken, 188 

Autumn 183 

Ode  to  Melancholy, 189 

Sonnets. 

Written  in  a  Volume  of  Shakspeare, 193 

To  Fancy, 194  ' ' 

To  an  Enthusiast, 194 

"  It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh," 195  i 

"  By  every  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts," 195  1 1 

On  Receiving  a  Gift, 196  i ! 

SUence, 196  i 

"  The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all," 197  I 

"  Love,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would  speak," 197  jl 

"  The  Last  Man," 198  I ; 

The  Lee  Shore, 205  I ; 

The  Death-bed, 206 

Lines  on  seeing  my  Wife  and  two  Children  sleeping  in  the  same  Chamber,    .   .   .  207  ; 

To  my  Daughter,  on  her  Birthday, 207  | ;' 

To  a  Child  Embracing  his  Mother, 203  j ; 

Stanzas, 209  |  j 

To  a  False  Friend, 210  i  , 

The  Poet's  Portion, 210  ! ; 

Song, 211  I ! 

Time,  Hope,  and  Memory, 212  !  I 

Flowers, 213  |  j 

To , 214  i ; 

To  , 214  J 

To , 215  !  ] 

Serenade, 216  j  i 

Verses  in  an  Albmn, 216  j  | 

Ballad, 217  1  i 

The  Romance  of  Cologne, , 217  j  i 

The  Key  :  A  Moorish  Romance, 219  j  I 

Sonnets.  ! ; 

To  the  Ocean, 224      i ! 

Lear, 225      i  i 

Sonnet  to  a  Sonnet, 225  \ 

False  Poets  and  True, 226  | ' 

To , 220  i ' 

For  the  Foiu'leenth  of  February,   .   .  227 

To  a  Sleeping  Child, 227 

To  a  Sleeping  Child, 228 

"  The  world  is  with  me,  and  its  many  cares," 223  \ 

ncMoncus.  ' . 

Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg, 231  i  , 

A  Mornhig  Thought, 306  ! : 

A  Tale  of  a  Trumpet, 307 


fr^ 


CONTENTS.  ix 

I  No  : 332 

The  Irish  Schoolmaster, 333 

I  l^pigrains. 

On  the  Art-Unions, 34I 

The  Superiority  of  Machinery, 34I 

Tlie  Forge  :  A  Romance  of  the  Iron  Age, 342 

To :  Composed  at  Rotterdam, 357 

The  Season, 333 

I^T*") • 358 

Faithless  Sally  Brcnvn, 359 

Bianca's  Dream, 361 

Over  the  Way, 37Q 

Epicurean  Reminiscences  of  a  Sentimentalist 374 

The  Carelesse  Nurse  JIayd, 376 

Ode  to  Perry,  the  Inventor  of  the  Patent  Perryan  Pen, 377 

Number  One, 383 

Lines  on  the  Celebration  of  Peace, 385 

The  Demon-ship, 386 

Spring, 389 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray, 391 

■The  Flowrer, 393 

The  Sea-spe!l, 394 

A  Sailor's  Apology  for  Bow-legs, 398 

The  Bachelor's  Dream, ^qq 

The  Wee  Man, 403 

Death's  Ramble, 4q5 

The  Progress  of  Art, 407 

A  Fairy  Tale, 4IO 


The  Turtles, 


414 


The  Desert-born, 419 

Love  Lane, , 427 

Domestic  Poems. 

I.  Hymeneal  Retrospections, 409 

II.  "  The  sun  was  slumbering  in  the  west,  my  daily  labors  past,'" 430 

m.  A  Parental  Ode  to  my  Son, 43I 

TV.  A  Serenade, 433 

A  Plain  Direction, 434 

Equestrian  Courtship 436 

An  Open  Question, 437 

Morning  Meditations, 440 

A  Black  Jub, 444 

Ode  to  Rae  Wilson,  Esquire, 45I 

A  Table  of  Errata, 466 

A  Row  at  the  Oxford  Arms 47O 

Etching  Moralized,  475 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Clapham  Academy, 483 

A  Retrospective  Review 437 


LIFE   OF   THOMAS   HOOD. 


Thomas  Hood  was  born  in  London  in  1798.  His  father  was  a 
native  of  Scotland,  and  was  for  many  years  a  partner  in  the  firm  of 
Vernor,  Hood  and  Sharp,  booksellers  and  publishers.  Of  his  early 
life  he  has  given  the  public  an  outline  in  his  Literary  Reminiscences, 
in  which  he  tells  us  that  when  but  twelve  years  of  age  he  lost  his 
father  and  elder  brother,  and  became  thenceforth  the  chief  care  of 
an  affectionate  and  bereaved  mother.  From  a  brief  memoir  by  Mrs. 
S.  C.  Hall  we  learn  that  he  was  remarkable  for  great  vivacity  of 
spirits,  and  prone  to  astonish  good  citizens,  guests  at  his  father's,  no 
less  than  his  fellow-pupils  when  at  school,  by  the  shrewdness  and 
brilliancy  of  his  observations  upon  topics  of  which  it  was  thought 
he  knew  nothing.  At  a  high  school  to  which  he  was  sent  he  picked 
up  some  Latin,  became  a  tolerable  English  grammarian,  and  so  good 
a  French  scholar  that  he  earned  a  few  guineas  — his  first  literary 
fee  —  by  revising  for  the  press  a  new  edition  of  "  Paul  et  Yirginie." 
A  friend  of  the  family,  however,  proposed  to  initiate  him  into  the 
profitable  mysteries  of  commerce,  and  young  Hood  found  himself 
planted  on  a  counting-house  stool,  where  he  remained  long  enough, 
at  least,  to  collect  materials  for  a  sonnet,  in  which  he  records  his 
mercantile  experiences. 

"  Time  was,  I  sat  upon  a  lofty  stool. 
At  lofty  desk,  and  with  a  clerkly  pen 
Began  each  morning,  at  the  stroke  of  ten. 
To  write  in  Bell  and  Co.'s  commercial  school; 
In  Warnford  Court,  a  shady  nook  and  cool. 


XU  LIFE    OF    UOOD. 

The  favorite  retreat  of  merchant  men  ; 

Yet  would  my  pen  turn  vagrant  even  then. 

And  take  stray  dips  in  the  Castalian  pool. 

Now  double  entry  —  now  a  flowery  trope  — 

Mingling  poetic  honey  v/ith  trade  wax  — 

Blogg,  Brothers  —  JMilton  —  Grote  and  Prescott  —  Pope  — 

Bristles  —  and  Hogg —  Glyn  Mills  and  Ilalifax  — 

Rogers  —  and  Towgood  —  Hemp  —  the  Bard  of  IIopo  — 

Barilla  —  Byron  —  Tallow  —  Burns  —  and  Flax  !  " 

His  health  failing,  he  was  "  shipped  as  per  advice,  ia  a  Scotch 
smack, "  to  his  father's  relations  in  Dundee.  There  he  made  his  first 
acquaintance  with  the  press,  an  event  of  so  much  interest  in  the 
career  of  an  author  that  no  one  can  describe  it  but  liimself.  Among 
the  temporary  sojourners  in  his  boarding-house  at  Dundee  was  a 
legal  antiquary,  who  had  been  sent  for  from  Edinburgh  to  make 
some  researches  among  the  civic  records.  "  It  was  my  humor  to 
think,"  says  Hood,  "  that,  in  Political  as  well  as  Domestic  Economy, 
it  must  be  better  to  sweep  the  Present  than  to  dust  the  Past ;  and 
certain  new  brooms  were  recommended  to  the  Town  Council  in  a 
quizzing  letter,  which  the  then  editor  of  the  Dundee  Adccriiser  or 
Chronicle  thought  fit  to  favor  with  a  prominent  place  in  his  columns. 
'  'Tis  pleasant  sure,'  sings  Lord  Byron,  '  to  see  one's  self  in  print;' 
and  according  to  the  popular  notion  I  ought  to  have  been  quite  up 
in  my  stirrups,  if  not  standing  on  the  saddle,  at  thus  seeing  myself, 
for  the  first  strange  time,  set  up  in  type.  INIemory  recalls,  however, 
but  a  very  moderate  share  of  exaltation,  which  was  totally  eclipsed, 
moreover,  by  the  exuberant  transports  of  an  accessory  before  the 
fact,  whom,  uiethinks,  I  still  see  in  my  mind's  eye,  rushing  out  of 
the  printing-office  with  the  wet  sheet  steaming  in  his  hand,  and  flut- 
tering all  along  the  High  Street,  to  announce  breathlessly  that  '  we 
were  in.'  But  G.  was  an  indifferent  scholar,  even  in  English,  and 
therefore  thought  the  more  highly  of  tliis  literary  feat. 

"  The  reception  of  my  letter  in  the  Dundee  newspaper  eneounxged 
me  to  forward  a  contribution  to  the  Dundee  Magazine,  the  editor 
of  which  was  kind  enough,  as  Winifred  Jenkins  says,  to  '  wrap  my 
bit  of  nonsense  under  his  Honor's  Kiver,'  without  charging  anything 
for  its  insertion.  Here  was  success  sufficient  to  turn  a  young  author 
at  once  into  '  a  scribbling  miller,'  and  make  hun  sell  himself,  body 


:-_-Jj 


LIFE    OF   HOOD.  XIU 

and  soul,  after  the  German  fashion,  to  that  minor  Mephistophiles, 
the  printer's  devil  !  Nevertheless,  it  was  not  till  years  afterwards 
and  the  lapse  of  a  term  equal  to  an  ordinary  apprenticeship,  that 
the  Imp  in  question  became  really  my  Familiar.  In  the  mean  time, 
I  continued  to  compose  occasionally,  and,  like  the  literary  perform- 
ances of  Mr.  Weller  senior,  my  lucubrations  were  generally  commit- 
tad  to  paper,  not  in  what  is  commonly  called  written  hand,  but  an 
imitation  of  print.  Such  a  course  hints  suspiciously  of  type  and 
antityjse,  and  a  longing  eye  to  the  Row ;  whereas  it  was  adopted 
simply  to  make  the  reading  more  easy,  and  thus  enable  me  the  more 
readily  to  form  a  judgment  of  the  effect  of  my  little  efforts.  It  is 
more  difficult  than  may  be  supposed  to  decide  on  the  value  of  a  work 
in  MS.,  and  especially  when  the  hand-writing  presents  only  a  swell 
mob  of  bad  characters,  that  must  be  severally  examined  and  re- 
examined to  arrive  at  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  case.  Print  set- 
tles it,  as  Coleridge  used  to  say  :  and,  to  be  candid,  I  have  more  than 
once  reversed,  or  greatly  modified,  a  previous  verdict,  on  seeing  a 
rough  proof  from  the  press. 

"  My  mental  constitution,  however  weak  my  physical  one,  waa 
proof  against  that  type-us  fever  which  parches  most  scribblers  till 
they  are  set  up,  done  up,  and  maybe  cut  up,  in  print  and  boards. 
Perhaps  I  had  read  and  trembled  at  the  melancholy  annals  of  those 
unfortunates,  who,  rashly  undertaking  to  write  for  bread,  had  poi- 
soned themselves,  like  Chatterton,  for  want  of  it,  or  choked  them- 
selves, like  Otway,  on  obtaining  it.  Possibly,  having  learned  to 
think  humbly  of  myself,  —  there  is  nothing  like  early  sickness  and 
sorrow  for  '  taking  the  conceit '  out  of  one,  —  my  vanity  did  not  pre- 
sume to  think,  with  certain  juvenile  Tracticians,  that  I  '  had  a  call ' 
to  hold  forth  in  print  for  the  edification  of  mankind.  Perchance, 
the  very  deep  reverence  my  reading  had  led  me  to  entertain  for  our 
bards  and  sages  deterred  me  from  thrusting  myself  into  the  fellow- 
ship of  beings  that  seemed  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels.  How- 
ever, in  spite  of  that  very  common  excuse  for  publication,  '  the  advice 
of  a  friend,'  who  seriously  recommended  the  submitting  of  my  MSS. 
to  a  literary  authority,  with  a  view  to  his  imprimatur,  my  slight 
acquaintance  with  the  press  was  pushed  no  further." 

Hood  resided  two  years  at  Dundee,  when  he  returned  to  London, 
and,  manifesting  a  great  talent  for  drawing,  was  apprenticed  to  his 
B 


Xiv  LIFE    OF   HOOD. 

uncle,  Mr.  Robert  Sands,  an  engraver.  He  -was  afterwards  -with  one 
of  the  Le  Keux  in  the  same  pursuit  ;  but,  though  working  in  aqua 
fortis,  as  he  tells  us,  he  stiU  played  -with  Castaly,  now  writing  —  all 
monkeys  are  imitators,  and  all  young  authors  are  monkeys  —  now  j  j 

writing  a  Bandit  to  match  the  Corsair,  and  now  hatching  a  Lalla  1 1 

Crow  by  way  of  companion  to  Lalla  Rookh.     We  recur  to  his  own  \  j 

Reminiscences  : 

"  In  the  mean  time,  while  thus  playing  with  literature,  an  event 
was  ripening  which  was  to  introduce  me  to  authorship  in  earnest,  and 
make  the  muse,  with  whom  I  had  only  flirted,  my  companion  for  life. 
....  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1821  a  memorable  duel,  originat- 
ing in  a  pen-and-ink  quarrel,  took  place  at  Chalk  Farm,  and  termi- 
nated in  the  death  of  Mr.  John  Scott,  the  able  editor  of  the  London  \  j 
Magazine.     The  melancholy  result  excited  great  interest,  in  which  I  !• 
fully  participated,  little  dreaming  that   his  catastrophe  involved  any  j  | 
consequences  of  importance  to  myself.     But,  on  the  loss  of  its  con-  I ! 
ductor,  the  periodical  passed  into  other  hands.     The  new  proprietors  [ ' 
were  my  friends ;  they  sent  for  me,  and,  after  some  preliminaries,  I  j  i 
was  duly  installed  as  a  sort  of  sub-editor  of  the  London  Magazine.  j  i 

"  It  would  be  affectation  to  say  that  engraving  was  resigned  with  |, 

regret.  There  is  always  something  mechanical  about  the  art ;  more- 
over, it  is  as  unwholesome  as  wearisome  to  sit  copper-fastened  to  a 
board,  with  a  cantle  scooped  out  to  accommodate  your  stomach,  if 
you  have  one,  painfully  ruling,  ruling,  and  still  ruling  lines  straight 
or  crooked  by  the  long  hundred  to  the  sc^uare  inch,  at  the  doubly- 
hazardous  risk,  which  Wordsworth  so  deprecates,  of '  growing  double. ' 
So,  farewell  Woollett !  Strange  !  Bartolozzi  !  I  have  said  my  vanity 
did  not  rashly  plunge  me  into  authorship  ;  but  no  sooner  was  there  a  <  i 

legitimate  opening  than  I  jumped  at  it,  a  la  Grimaldi,  head  foremost,  |i 

and  was  speedily  behind  the  scenes.  j ! 

"  To  judge  by  my  zeal  and  delight  in  my  new  pursuit,  the  bowl  ' 

had  at  la^t  found  its  natural  bias.  Not  content  with  taking  arti- 
cles, like  candidates  for  holy  orders,  —  with  rejecting  articles,  like  the 
Belgians,  —  I  dreamt  articles,  thought  articles,  wrote  articles,  which  I 

were  all  inserted  by  the  editor,  of  course  with  the  concurrence  of  hia 
deputy.  The  more  irksome  parts  of  authorship,  such  as  the  correc- 
tion of  the  press,  were  to  me  labors  of  love.  I  received  a  revise  from  j 
Mr.  Baldwin's  ^Mr.  Parker,  as  if  it  had  been  a  proof  of  his  regard ; 


LIFE    OF   HOOD.  XT 

forgave  him  all  his  slips,  and  really  tliought  thit  printers'  devils -n-ero 
not  so  black  as  they  are  painted.  But  my  top-gallant  glory  vas  in 
'  our  contributors ' !  How  I  used  to  look  forward  to  Elia  !  and  back- 
ward for  Hazlitt,  and  all  round  for  Edward  Herberfe,  and  how  I  used 
to  look  up  to  Allan  Cunningham  !  for  at  that  time  the  London  had  a 
goodly  list  of  writers — a  rare  company.  It  is  now  defunct;  and 
perhaps  no  ex-periodical  might  so  appropriately  be  apostrophized 
Avith  the  Irish  funereal  question,  '  Arrah,  honey,  why  did  you  die?  ' 
Had  not  you  an  editor,  and  elegant  prose  writers,  and  beautiful 
poets,  and  broths  of  boys  for  criticism  and  classics,  and  wits  and 
humorists  —  Elia,  Gary,  Procter,  Cunningham,  BoANTing,  Barton, 
Hazlitt,  Elton,  Hartley  Coleridge,  Talfourd,  Soane,  Horace  Smith, 
Reyi\olds,  Poole,  Clare,  and  Thomas  Benyon,  with  a  power  besides? 
Hadn't  you  Lions' Heads  with  Traditional  Tales  ?  Had  n't  you  an 
Opium  Eater,  and  a  Dwarf,  and  a  Giant,  and  a  Learned  Lamb,  and 
a  Green  Man?  Hadn't  you  a  regular  Drama,  and  a  Musical  Report, 
and  a  Report  of  Agriculture,  and  an  Obituary,  and  a  Price  Current, 
and  a  current  price,  of  only  half-a-crown  ?  Arrah,  why  did  you  die  ? 
"Why,  somehow,  the  contributors  fell  away,  -the  concern  went  into 
other  hands  —  worst  of  all,  a  new  editor  tried  to  put  the  belles-lettres 
in  utilitarian  envelopes  ;  whereupon  the  circulation  of  the  Miscel- 
lany, like  that  of  poor  LeFevre,  got  slower,  slower,  slower,  and 
slower  still  —  and  then  stopped  forever  !  It  was  a  sorry  scattering  of 
those  old  Londoners !  Some  went  out  of  the  country ;  one  (Clare) 
went  into  it.  Lamb  retreated  to  Colebrooke.  Jlr.  Cary  presented 
himself  to  the  British  ^luseum.  Reynolds  and  Barry  took  to  engross- 
ing when  they  should  pen  a  stanza,  and  Thomas  Benyon  gave  up 
literature. 

'•  It  is  with  mingled  feelings  of  pride,  pleasure  and  pain,  that  I 
revert  to  tliosj  old  times,  when  the  writers  I  had  long  known  and 
admired  in  spirit  Avere  present  to  me  in  the  flesh  ;  when  I  had  the 
delight  of  listening  to  their  wit  and  wisdom  from  their  own  lips,  of 
gazing  on  their  faces,  and  grasping  their  right  hands.  Familiar  fig- 
ures rise  before  me,  familiar  voices  ring  in  my  ears,  and,  alas  ! 
amongst  them  are  shapes  that  I  must  never  see,  sounds  that  I  can 
never  hear,  again.  Before  my  departure  from  England,  I  was  one 
of  the  few  who  saw  the  grave  close  over  the  remains  of  one  whom  to 
know  as  a  friend  Avas  to  love  as  a  relation.     Never  did  a  better  sou] 


XVI  LIFE   OF   HOOD. 

go  to  a  better  world  !  Never,  perhaps  (giving  the  lie  direct  to  the 
common  imputation  of  envy,  malice  and  hatred,  amongst  the  brother- 
hood), never  did  an  author  descend  —  to  quote  his  favorite  Sir  T. 
Browne  —  into  '  the  land  of  the  mole  and  the  pismire '  so  hung  with 
golden  opinions,  and  honored  and  regretted  with  such  stacere  eulogies 
and  elegies,  by  his  contemporaries.  To  him,  the  first  of  these,  my 
reminiscences,  is  eminently  due,  for  I  lost  in  him  not  only  a  dear  and 
kind  friend,  but  an  invaluable  critic, —  one  whom,  were  such  literary 
adoptions  in  modem  use,  I  might  well  name,  as  Cotton  called  Walton, 
my  '  father. ' 

"  I  was  sitting,  one  morning,  beside  our  editor,  busily  correcting 
proofs,  when  a  visitor  was  announced,  whose  name,  grumbled  by  a 
low,  ventriloquial  voice,  like  Tom  Pipes  calluig  from  the  held  through 
the  hatchway,  did  not  resound  distinctly  on  my  tympanum.  How- 
ever, the  door  opened,  and  in  came  a  stranger,  a  figure  remarkable  at 
a  glance,  with  a  fine  head  on  a  small,  spare  body,  supported  by  two 
almost  immaterial  legs.  He  was  clothed  in  sables,  of  a  bygone 
fashion,  but  there  was  something  wanting,  or  something  present 
about  him,  that  certified  he  was  neither  a  divine,  nor  a  physician, 
nor  a  schoolmaster ;  from  a  certain  neatness  and  sobriety  in  his 
dress,  coupled  with  his  sedate  bearing,  he  might  have  been  taken,  but 
that  such  a  costume  would  be  anomalous,  for  a  Quaker  in  black. 
He  looked  still  more  like  (what  he  really  was)  a  literary  modern 
antique,  a  new-old  author,  a  living  anachronism,  contemporaiy  at 
once  with  Burton  the  elder  and  Colman  the  younger,  ileanwhile, 
he  advanced  with  rather  a  peculiar  gait,  his  walk  was  planti- 
grade, and,  with  a  cheerful  'How  d'ye,'  and  one  of  the  blandest, 
sweetest  smiles  that  ever  brightened  a  manly  countenance,  held  out 
two  fingers  to  the  editor.  The  two  gentlemen  in  black  soon  fell  into 
discourse  ;  and,  whilst  they  conferred,  the  Lavater  principle  within 
me  set  to  work  upon  the  interesting  specimen  thus  presented  to  its 
speculations.  It  was  a  striking,  intellectual  face,  full  of  wiry  lines, 
physiognomical  quips  and  cranks,  that  gave  it  great  character. 
There  was  much  earnestness  about  the  brows,  and  a  deal  of  specula- 
tion in  the  eyes,  which  were  brown  and  bright,  and  '  quick  in  turn- 
ing ;  '  the  nose,  a  decided  one,  though  of  no  established  order  ;  and 
there  was  a  handsome  smartness  about  the  mouth.  Altogether,  it 
was  no  common  face  —  none  of  those  wiUoio-pattern  ones,  which  nature 


LIFE    OF   HOOD.  XVU 

turns  out  by  tlioasautls  at  her  potteries  ;  — but  more  like  a  cliance 
Bpecimou  of  the  Chinese  ware,  one  to  the  set  —  unique,  antique, 
quaint.  No  one  who  had  once  seen  it  could  pretend  not  to  know  it 
again.  It  was  no  face  to  lend  its  countenance  to  any  confusion  of 
persons  in  a  Comedy  of  Errors.  You  might  have  sworn  to  it  piece- 
meal—  a  separate  affida^-it  for  every  feature.  In  short,  his  face  was 
as  original  as  his  figure  ;  his  figure,  as  his  character  ;  his  character, 
as  his  writings  ;  his  writings,  the  most  original  of  the  age.  After 
the  literary'  business  had  been  settled,  the  editor  invited  his  con- 
tributor to  dinner,  adding,  '  We  shall  have  a  hare  — ' 

'  And  —  and —  and  —  and  many  friends  !  ' 

"  The  hesitation  in  the  speech,  and  the  readiness  of  the  allusion, 
were  alike  characteristic  of  the  individual,  whom  his  familiars  will 
perchance  have  recognized  already  as  the  delightful  essayist,  the  cap- 
ital critic,  the  jileasant  wit  and  humorist,  the  delicate-minded  and 
large-hearted  Charles  Lamb  !  He  was  shy,  like  myself,  with  strang- 
ers; so  that,  despite  my  yearnings,  our  first  meeting  scarcely  amounted 
to  an  introduction.  We  were  both  at  dinner,  amongst  the  hare's 
many  friends  ;  but  our  acquaintance  got  no  further,  in  spite  of  a 
desperate  attempt  on  my  part  to  attract  his  notice.  His  complaint 
of  the  Decay  of  Beggars  presented  another  chance  ;  I  wrote  on  coarse 
paper,  and  in  ragged  English,  a  letter  of  thanks  to  him,  as  if  from 
one  of  his  mendicant  clients,  but  it  produced  no  eflfect.  I  had  given 
lip  all  hope,  when,  one  night,  sitting  sick  and  sad  in  my  bed-room, 
racked  with  the  rhoumatism,  the  door  was  suddenly  opened,  the 
well-known  quaint  figure  in  black  walked  in  without  any  formality, 
and,  with  a  cheerful  '  AVell,  boy,  how  are  you? '  and  the  bland,  sweet 
smile,  extended  the  two  fingers.  They  were  eagerly  clutched,  of 
course,  and  from  that  hour  we  were  firm  friends." 

In  1826  Hood  made  a  collection  of  his  contributions  to  the  London 
Magazine,  which,  with  some  other  pieces,  was  issued  under  the  title 
of  Whuns  and  Oddities.  His  first  book  had  been  published  anony- 
mously. It  was  styled  Odes  and  Addresses  to  Great  People,  and  was 
written  in  conjunction  with  his  brothei'-in-law,  Mr.  J.  H.  Reynolds. 
This  work  had  introduced  Hood  to  the  public  as  a  humorist  of  no 
common  power  ;  a  reputation  which  had  been  increased  by  his  produc- 
tions in  the  Magazine  —  a  journal  of  which  the  ^Ycst minster  Rciieic 


xvni 


LIFE    OF   HOOD, 


said,  with  great  truth,  that  it  was  during  its  short  life  cleverly  sup- 
ported by  a  knot  of  men  whom  a  too  ardent  love  of  the  ancient  and 
quaint  and  homely  in  literature,  hurried  into  sundry  faults  of  taste, 
which  the  sectarian  influence  of  coterie  intercourse  confused  into 
mannerism. 

Hood's  National  Tales  appeared  in  1827,  and  was  followed  by  a 
volume  containing  The  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies,  Hero  and 
Leander,  Lycus  the  Centaur,  and  other  poems.  In  1S23  he  comiiionccd 
the  Comic  Annual,  which  was  continued  for  nine  years.  For  one 
year  he  edited  Tlie  Gem,  in  Avhich  The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram 
first  appeared  ;  afterwards,  issued  in  a  separate  brochure,  with  designs 
by  W.  Harvey.  In  1834  he  published  Tylncy  Hall,  a  novel  with 
which  we  remember  to  have  been  very  much  entertained,  and  which, 
we  think,  never  enjoyed  the  favor  to  which  it  was  entitled  by  its  merits. 
In  183G  he  published  a  new  edition  of  his  Whims  and  Oddities  in 
Prose  and  Verse  ;  and  in  1838  a  selection  of  his  contributions  to  the 
Comic  Annual,  with  new  matter,  in  a  series  of  monthly  numbers, 
under  the  title  of  Hood's  Own.  Ill  health  now  compelled  Iiim  to  go 
to  the  continent  to  recruit ;  and  while  in  Belgium  he  published  his 
pleasant  little  volume.  Up  the  Rhine.  During  his  absence  an  article 
on  his  works  ajjpeared  in  the  Westminster  Review,  from  which  we 
extract  the  following  description  of  Hood  as  he  appeared  in  social 
life: 

"  TVe  began  by  stating  our  conviction  that  few  writers  were  so 
imperfectly  understood  as  he  of  the  '  Comic  Annual '  is  ;  few,  we 
may  add,  have  been  more  sparingly  known  in  the  world  of  society. 
Hood  has  never  sought  the  tinsel  honors  of  Lionsliip.  A  shape  of 
slight  figure,  witli  pale  and  pensive  countenance,  may,  indeed,  have 
flitted  through  society  occasionally,  without  causing  any  remark  j 
none  of  the  Lady  Worrymores  or  Capel  Loffcs,  who  make  themselves 
ridiculous,  and  their  literary  protege's  disrespectable,  by  their  sense- 
less ecstasies,  ^  even  dreaming  that  that  slight  figure  was  moving  to 
and  fro  to  gather  simples  of  humor  and  folly  and  absurdity,  but  not 
in  the  spirit  of  a  Syeoras,  —  that  the  rarest  conceit  coukl  tAvinkle 
through  the  sjjeetacles  which  give  a  decent  gravity  to  those  eyes,  or 
that  the  most  luxuriant  whimsies  and  the  most  irresistible  repartees 
could  drop,  rich  as  oil,  if  not  always  sweet  as  honey,  from  the  corners 
of  that  impassive-looking  mouth.     But  we  know  liettcr  ;  and,  as  tho 


LIFE    OF   HOOD.  XIX 

so;i  divides  him  from  ns,  may  say  as  much  •without  any  fear  of  our 
ni  jud  interposing  to  prevent  ug.  We  have  sat  by  his  side  through  the 
'  small  hours,'  listening  to  tales  of  ghosts,  rememberwj,  improved  or 
improvised,  —  such  as  night- watchers  in  the  nineteenth  century  are 
rarely  permitted  to  enjoy.  "We  haTe  heard  him  —  apart  from  the 
listening  circle  —  accompany  the  long-winded  tale  of  a  traveller  with 
such  a  running  fire  of  notes  and  comments  aside  as  the  brethren  of 
t;ie  Row  would  give  gold  to  gather  and  print.  We  have  watched 
him  so  provoke  the  component  members  of  a  social  rubljer  in  that 
moment  of  intense  interest  when  the  game  hung  on  a  card,  that  odd 
tri;-ks  have  been  forgotten,  tramps  wasted,  and  all  four  hands  thrown 
down,  in  an  universal  paroxysm.  We  have  seen  his  Yorick  spirit 
sending  forth  its  sparkling  bubbles,  in  despite  of  trial  and  vicissitude  ; 
—  for  may  we  not  allude  to  these,  when  in  his  preface  to  his  last  new 
undertaking  our  friend  has  himself  pointed  thereat?  His  education 
as  an  engraver  has  given  him  an  eye  of  singular  keenness,  —  his 
genius  a  fancy  ever  ready,  and  a  wit  rarely  blunt,  rarely  indebted  to 
others  for  its  weapon  ;  and  these  are  as  much  manifested  in  his  daily 
intercourse  with  his  friends  as  in  his  more  ceremonious  Commerce 
with  the  public.  There  is  not  a  page  in  all  his  works  more  thor- 
oughly humorous  than  the  account  we  once  heard  him  deliver  of  a  j 
hurried  labor  at  the  '  Comic  Annual,'  when,  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
like  Mozart  over  the  overture  to  Don  Giovanni,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
continued  (he  declares)  to  dictate,  for  some  good  ten  minutes,  ere 
his  amanuensis,  who  had  been  plying  the  pen  for  half  an  hour,  her- 
self scarcely  less  somnolent,  discerned  the  least  change  in  his  diction, 
the  least  abatement  of  his  fluency.  There  is  no  dilemma  recounted 
by  Aire.  Twigg,  or  Sirs.  Jones,  half  so  diverting  as  those  with  details 
of  which  his  familiar  lettere  from  the  continent  are  filled.  But  with 
these  the  world  will  perhaps  one  day  be  edified  ;  and  it  would  be  un- 
fair, by  attempting  them  in  feebler  phrase,  to  forestall  the  new  '  Pil- 
grim of  the  Rhine.'  " 

Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall's  reminiscences  of  the  poet  relate  to  about  the 
same  period  of  his  life  : 

"  I  remember  the  first  time  I  met  him  was  at  one  of  the  pleasant 
soirees  of  the  painter  Martin  ;  for  a  moment  I  turned  away — as 
many  have  done  —  disappointed,  for  the  countenance,  in  repose,  was 
if  melancholy  rather  than  of  mirth  ;  there  was  something  calm,  even 


XX  LIFE    OF  HOOD. 

to  solemnity,  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  face,  which,  in  public,  was 
seldom  relieved  by  the  eloquent  play  of  the  mouth,  or  the  occasional 
sparkle  of  the  observant  eye  ;  and  it  was  a  general  remark  among  his 
acquaintances,  that  he  was  too  quiet  for  'the  world.'  There  uio 
many  wit-watchers  to  be  founcrm  society,  who  think  there  is  nothing 
in  a  man,  unless,  like  a  sounding-board,  he  make  a  great  noise  at  a 
small  touch  ;  who  consider  themselves  aggi-ieved,  unless  an  '  author' 
open  at  once  like  a  book,  and  speak  as  he  writes  ;  this  vulgar  notion, 
like  others  of  the  same  stamp,  creeps  into  good  society,  or  what  is  so 
considered,  and  I  have  seen  both  Hook  and  Hood  '  set,'  as  a  pointer 
sets  a  partridge,  by  persons  who  glitter  in  evanescent  light  simply  by 
repeating  what  such  men  have  said.  Mr.  Hook,  perhaps,  liked  this 
celebrity,  —  this  sitting  and  staring,  this  lion-hunt, — so  different 
from  the  heart-worship  paid  to  verita1)le  greatness.  Mr.  Hood  did 
not ;  he  was  too  sensitive,  too  refined,  to  endure  it ;  the  dislike  to 
being  pointed  at  as  the  '  man  who  was  funny '  kept  him  out  of  a 
crowd,  where  there  were  always  numbers  who  really  honored  his 
genius,  and  loved  him  for  his  gentle  and  domestic  virtues.  It  was 
only  among  his  friends  that  his  playful  fancy  flourished,  or  that  he 
yielded  to  its  influence;  although,  strictly  speaking,  '  social '  in  all 
his  feelings,  he  never  sought  to  stimulate  his  wit  by  the  false  poison 
of  draughts  of  wine  ;  nor  was  he  ever  more  cheerful  than  when  at  his 
own  fireside  he  enjoyed  the  companionship  of  his  dear  and  devoted 
wife.  He  was  playful  as  a  child;  and  his  imagination,  pure  as 
bright,  frolicked  with  nature,  whom  he  loved  too  well  ever  to  outrage 
or  insult  by  slight  or  misrepresentation.  And  yet  he  was  city  born, 
and  city  bred,  —  born  in  the  unpoetic  district  of  '  the  Poultry,'  — 
though  born,  as  it  were,  to  letters,  for  his  father  was  a  bookseller." 
On  the  return  of  Hood  to  England,  he  became  editor  of  the  New 
X  Monthly  Magazine,  and,  on  retiring  from  it  in  1843,  he  published 
X'  the  best  of  his  writings  in  prose  and  verse  in  that  journal,  with  some 

•^  additions,  with  the  title  of  "Whimsicalities."     In  1844  he  started 

Hood's  Mafjazine,  his  last  periodical,  and  continued  to  contribute  to 
its  pages  until  within  a  month  before  his  death.  In  his  later  days 
he  was  an  occasional  contributor  to  Punch,  where  his  celebrated 
Song  of  the  Shirt  made  its  first  appearance. 

Hood  died  on  the  third  of  May,  1845,  leaving  a  widow  and  twc 
children.     He  died  a  poor  man.     He  had  no  money-making  faculty, 


LIFE    OF    UOOD.  XXI 

lie  could  delight  the  world  with  his  genius,  but  he  did  not  make  u 
good  commercial  use  of  it.  With  all  his  talents  and  fame,  he  did 
not  manage  to  coin  them  into  gold.  Soon  after  his  death  a  subscrip- 
tion was  commenced  for  the  benefit  of  his  family.  The  project  was 
communicated  to  the  public  in  a  single  paragraph,  which  will  be  read 
Avith  melancholy  interest : 

"  The  late  Thomas  IIood.  —  This  distinguished  writer,  who  has, 
for  upwards  of  twenty  years,  entertained  the  public  with  a  constant 
succession  of  comic  and  humoristic  works,  in  the  whole  range  of  ichich 
not  a  single  line  of  immoral  tendenx:y,  or  calculated  to  pain  an  indi- 
vidual, can  he  pointed  out,  whose  poems  and  serious  writings  rank 
among  the  noblest  modern  contributions  of  our  national  literature, 
and  whose  pen  was  ever  the  ready  and  efficient  advocate  of  the  unfor- 
tunate and  the  oppressed  (as  recently,  for  instance,  in  the  admirable 
'  Song  of  the  Shirt,'  which  gave  so  remarkable  an  impulse  to  the 
movement  on  belialf  of  the  distressed  needlewomen),  has  left,  by  his 
death,  a  widow  and  two  children  in  straitened  and  precarious  cir 
cumstances,  with  no  other  means  of  subsistence  than  a  small  pension, 
terminable  on  t!ie  failure  of  the  widow's  life,  barely  sufficient  to  sup- 
ply a  family  of  three  with  common  necessaries,  and  totally  inadequate 
for  the  education  and  advancement  of  the  orphan  children.  Even 
this  scant}^  resource  has  been,  of  necessit}-,  forestalled  to  a  consider- 
able extent  daring  the  last  five  months,  in  order  to  meet  the  heavy 
sick-room  and  funeral  expenses.  Under  these  circumstances,  a  sub- 
scription for  the  family  has  been  set  on  foot.  The  admirers  of 
Thomas  Hood  throughout  the  country  will,  it  is  hoped,  take  this 
opportunity  of  publicly  testifying  their  recognition  of  his  genius  and 
their  sense  of  his  personal  wortli." 

Of  his  latter  days  an  affecting  account  was  given  in  the  Literary- 
Gazette,  shortly  after  his  death  : 

"  Thomas  Hood  died  on  Saturday  morning.  A  spirit  of  true  phi- 
lanthropy has  departed  from  its  earthly  tenement ;  the  light  of  a 
curious  and  peculiar  wit  has  been  extinguished  ;  the  feeling  and 
pathos  of  a  natural  poet  have  descended  into  the  grave  ;  and  left 
those  who  knew,  admired,  and  loved  these  qualities,  to  feel  and  de- 


XXll  LIFE    OF    HOOD. 

plore  the  loss  of  him  in  whom  they  were  so  preeminently  united. 
Yet  we  can  hardly  say  that  we  lament  his  death.  Poor  Hood  !  his 
sportive  humor,  like  the  rays  from  a  crackling  fire  in  a  dilapidated 
building,  had  long  played  among  the  fractures  of  a  ruined  consti- 
tution, and  flashed  upon  the  world  through  the  flaws  and  rents  of  a 
Bhattered  wreck.  Yet,  infirm  as  was  the  fabric,  the  equal  mind  was 
never  disturbed  to  the  last.  He  contemplated  the  approach  of  de;ith 
with  a  composed  philosophy,  and  a  resigned  soul.  It  had  no  terrors 
for  him.  A  sliort  while  ago  we  sat  for  hours  by  his  bed-side  in  gen- 
eral and  cheerful  conversation,  as  when  in  social  and  healthful  inter- 
course. Then  he  spoke  of  the  certain  and  unavoidable  event  about  to 
take  place  with  perfect  unreserve,  unrufiled  calmness ;  and  the  lesson 
and  example  how  to  die  was  never  given  in  a  more  impressive  and 
consolatory  manner  than  by  Thomas  Hood.  His  bodily  sufierings 
had  made  no  change  in  his  mental  character.  He  was  the  same  as 
in  his  publications,  —  at  times  lively  and  jocular,  at  times  serious  and 
affecting ;  and  upon  the  one  great  subject  of  a  death-bed  hope,  he  de- 
clared himself,  as  throughout  life,  opposed  to  canters  and  hypocrites, 
—  a  class  he  had  always  detested  and  written  against;  while  he  set 
the  higliest  price  upon  sincere  Christianity,  whose  works  of  charity 
and  mercy  bore  witness  to  the  integrity  and  purity  of  the  faith  pro- 
fessed.    '  Our  common  friend,'  he  said,  '  Mrs.  E ,  I  love  ;  for  she 

is  truly  religious,  and  not  a  fious,  woman.'  He  seemed  anxious  that 
his  sentiments  on  the  momentous  question  should  not  be  misrepre- 
sented ;  and  that  his  animosity  against  the  pretended  should  not  be 
misconstrued  into  a  want  of  just  estimation  for  the  real. 

"  Another  subject  upon  which  he  dwelt  with  much  earnestness  and 
gratitude,  was  the  grant  of  a  pension  of  one  hundred  pounds  a  year 
to  his  wife.  '  There  is,  after  all,'  he  observed,  '  much  of  good  to 
counterbalance  the  bad  in  this  world.  I  have  now  a  better  opinion 
of  it  than  I  once  had,  when  pressed  by  wrongs  and  injuries.'  Two 
autograph  letters  from  Sir  Robert  Peel,  relating  to  this  pension,  gave 
him  intense  gratification,  and  were  indeed  most  honorable  to  tlic 
heart  of  the  writer,  whose  warmth  in  the  expression  of  personal  solic- 
itude for  himself  and  his  family,  and  of  admiration  for  his  jM-oduc- 
tions  (with  which  Sir  Robert  seemed  to  be  well  acquainted),  we  firmly 
believe  imparted  more  delight  to  the  dying  man  than  even  the  pros- 
pect that  those  so  dear  to  him  would  not  be  left  destitute.     In  hj< 


LIFE  OF  nooD.  xxiii 

answer  to  the  minister's  first  communication,  he  had  alluded  to  the 
tendency  of  his  -writings  ever  being  on  the  side  of  humanity  and 
order,  and  not  of  the  modern  school,  to  separate  society  into  two 
classes,  the  rich  and  poor,  and  to  inflame  hatred  on  the  one  side,  and 
fear  on  the  other.  This  avowal  appeared,  from  the  reply  which 
acknowledged  its  truth,  to  have  been  very  acceptable  to  the  premier, 
from  whom  the  gift  had  emanated." 

On  the  18  til  July,  1854,  a  monument  was  raised  to  the  memory 
of  Hood  ;  and  in  the  sketch  of  the  proceedings  on  this  occasion,  and 
the  speech  of  Mr.  Mouckton  Milnes,  which  we  copy  from  the  London 
Times,  we  find  a  fit  conclusion  to  this  brief  account  of  his  life.  Mr. 
Milnes  observed : 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  come  here  to-day  to  say  a  few  words  before 
we  open  to  your  view  the  monument  which  has  been  erected  to  the 
memory  of  Hood.  It  is  now  some  years  since  we  laid  our  triend  below 
us  in  this  pleasant  place,  where  he  rests  after  a  long  iUness  —  after  a 
life  of  noble  struggle  with  much  adversity,  and  of  nothing  but  good  to 
his  fellow-men.  It  is  now  thought  advisable  that  a  few  words  should 
be  said  before  that  ceremony  takes  place.  It  is  rather  a  habit  of  our 
neighbors  the  French  than  of  ourselves,  to  make  eulogistic  orations 
at  the  tombs  of  our  friends.  I  do  not  think  the  habit  in  general  is 
pleasing  to  our  taste  ;  but  there  are  reasons  why,  on  the  present 
occasion,  it  may  not  be  unbecoming.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  very 
difficult  to  perform  this  duty,  because  we  must  feel  that,  if  ever  there 
was  a  character  of  simphcity  and  humility,  it  was  that  of  the  late 
]Mr.  Thomas  Hood  ;  aud  it  would  not  become  us,  on  the  jjresent  occa- 
sion, to  indulge  in  eulogies  which,  if  he  were  here  himself,  Avould  be 
distasteful  to  him;  for  he  was  a  man  who -ever  retired  from  the 
crowd,  and  who  loved,  as  he  has  said  in  his  o^m  classical  and  beau- 
tiful language : 

'  To  kneel  remote  upon  the  simple  sod. 
And  sue,  in  formci  pauperU ,  to  God.' 

Our  German  friends  call  a  cemetery  of  this  kind  '  God's  field,'  and 
we  must  not  desecrate  it  by  vain  and  pompous  eulogies  over  a  fellow- 
mortal.  All  we  can  do  is  to  commit  him,  with  all  his  errors,  to  the 
mercy  of  God,  and  at  the  same  time  to  keep  his  memory  dear  and 
fiis  fame  bright  among  us.  This  is  the  purpose  of  the  friends  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Hood  who  have  raised  this  structure.     Some  of  them  were 


XXIV  LIFE    OF   HOOD. 

familiar  with  him  from  his  youth  —  the  eyes  of  others  never  lit  upon 
his  person.  It  would  be  invidious  to  single  out  any  of  these  frienda 
of  the  poet ;  but  I  may  mention  the  name  of  one  lady  who  is  Avell 
known  to  us  all,  Miss  Eliza  Cook,  to  whose  exertions,  in  all  quarters 
of  society,  the  erection  of  this  monument  is  very  much  OAving. 
Some,  too,  have  contributed  to  it  who  did  not  appreciate  him  daring 
his  lifetime  ;  —  to  them  may  be  applicable  his  beautiful  lines  : 

'Farewell  !  we  did  not  know  thy  worth  ; 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  'tis  prized. 
So  angels  walked  unknown  on  earth. 
But  when  they  flew  were  recognized.' 

"  He  was  a  poet  —  a  poet  in  the  true  sense  of  the  vrord  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  I  by  no  means  think  that  his  poetical  powers  were  of  so 
great  and  remarkable  a  character  that  his  reputation  would  have 
become  such  as  it  is  if  it  had  been  confined  to  his  poetical  works 
alone.  By  his  poetical  works  I  mean  those  developments  of  pure  im- 
agination, which  are  more  interesting  to  literary  men  than  they  can 
be  to  the  world  in  general.  In  all  these  works  we  recognize  not 
only  the  lyrical  facilities  which  enable  many  a  youth  to  throw  out 
good  poetry,  but  the  refined  taste  and  cultivated  mind  of  mature 
years.  But  his  fame  —  that  for  which  he  is  chiefly  known  to  us  — 
belongs  to  him  as  an  English  humorist ;  and,  in  using  that  word,  I 
use  no  word  inapplicable  to  the  occasion  or  unworthy  of  his  fame. 
It  is  the  boast  of  our  literature,  as  distinguished  from  that  of  all 
other  nations,  that  from  the  earliest  times  of  its  history  we  find 
humoristic  writers  who  delighted  the  age  in  which  they  lived  and 
those  which  succeeded  them.  In  that  category  we  may  place  Shaks- 
peare  himsalf,  and  we  may  draw,  downwards,  a  long  genealogical 
list  of  humorists,  ending  with  the  names  of  Charles  Lamb,  Sydney 
Smith,  and  Thomas  Hood.  I  do  not  know  whether  my  opinions  in 
this  matter  may  be  peculiar  ;  but  I  have  often  thought  that  if  I 
were  to  pray  to  Heaven  for  a  gift  to  be  given  to  any  person  in  wliose 
moral  and  intellectual  welfare  I  was  especially  interested,  it  would 
be  that  he  might  have  the  gift  of  humor.  The  gift  of  humor  is,  as 
it  were,  the  balance  of  all  the  faculties.  It  enables  a  man  to  see  the 
strong  contrasts  of  life  around  him  ;  it  prevents  him  being  too  much 
devoted  to  his  own  knowledge,  and  too  proud  of  his  own  imagina- 


LIFE    OF   HOOD.  XX^ 

don.  and  it  also  disposes  him  to  suljmit,  with  a  wise  and  pioua 
patience,  to  the  vicissitudes  of  liis  daily  existence.  It  is  thus  that 
humorists,  such  as  Hood  has  been,  and  as  Dickens  is  now,  are  great 
benefactors  of  our  species,  not  only  on  account  of  the  amusement 
which  they  give  us,  but  because  they  arc  great  moral  teachers.  The 
humorous  writings  of  Mr.  Tliomas  Hood  have  instructed  you  many 
years,  and  will  instruct  your  children  after  you.  I  should  mention, 
however,  tliat  this  combinatiuu  of  poetry  and  humor  does  not  pro- 
duce, in  all  persons,  the  same  blessed  effects  that  it  has  produced 
here.  In  some  cases  it  has  degenerated  into  impatient  satire  and 
fierce  revolt  against  the  better  feelings  of  humanity.  In  such  a  mind 
as  that  of  Swift,  it  produced  these  evil  effects  ;  but  in  such  a  mind 
as  Hood's,  it  produced  directly  the  contrary  :  it  generated  a  noble  and 
generous  sympathy  with  the  wants  and  desires  of  his  fellow-creat- 
ures ;  and  it  is  for  this  combination  of  poetical  genius  and  humor 
and  earnest  philanthropy,  that  his  name  has  grown  up  to  become,  as 
it  were,  a  proverb  for  great  wit  united  with  deep  and  solemn  sympa- 
thies. We  recognize,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  these  rare  merits  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Hood  in  the  productions  of  his  mature  life,  such  as  '  The 
Bridge  of  Sighs,'  and  'The  Song  of  the  Shirt,'  —  verses  which 
appear  occasionally,  and  only  occasionally,  in  literature,  and  which 
seem  like  products  of  the  acme  of  the  human  mind  —  such  jwoducts 
as  the  prison-song  of  Lovelace,  the  elegy  of  Gray,  the  sea-songs  of 
Campbell,  '  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,'  and  the  '  May  Queen' 
of  Alfred  Tennyson  —  poems  which,  though  they  cost  their  authors 
much  less  trouble  than  many  of  their  less  successful  works,  are,  nev- 
ertheless, the  anchors  (so  to  speak)  of  their  world-wide  fame.  These 
beautiful  poems  of  Mr.  Thomas  Hood  have  had  a  deep  moral  effect 
on  different  classes  of  society.  If  there  are  among  those  poems,  and 
others  of  ^'ilr.  Thomas  Hood,  some  expressions  of  stern  indignation 
—  if  there  are  some  passages  which  may  seem  almost  exceptions  to 
the  general  amiability  of  his  character  —  it  is  that  he  wished  to 
enforce  the  moral,  that 

'  Evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought 
As  well  as  want  of  heart.' 

I  do  not  think,  therefore,  that  there  was  any  levity  in  his  character 
because  he  was  an  humorist.     I  do  not  think,  because  you  find  in  hia 
C 


XXVI  LIFE    OF    HOOD. 

■works  that  v.-hh  Ins  rich  wit  and  his  great  possessions  of  language 
he  delighted  to  play  with  words  as  if,  almost,  they  were  fireworks, 
there  was  a  want  of  gravity  or  seriousness  in  his  composition.  In  i 
poem  of  his  which  id  a  2>erfect  reportorium  of  wit  and  spirit,  ht 
seems  conscior.s  of  this  himself,  for  he  writes  to  the  effect  that  — 

'However  critics  may  take  offence, 
A  double  meaning  gives  double  sense.' 

And  there  are,  no  doubt,  certain  subtile  faculties  about  us  which 
enable  us  to  find  such  great  pleasure  in  the  combination  of  this  ao-il- 
ity  of  diction  with  seriousness  of  purpose.  Ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  have  raised  this  monument,  I  was  informed  by  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  a  dear  friend  of  his,  who  remained  with  him  to  the  last  —  Mr. 
Ward  —  that  ^Mr.  Thomas  Hood  was  in  very  great  disease  and  suffer- 
ing, that  he  was  laboring  under  some  pecuniary  difficulties  —  that 
his  mind  was  not  easy  on  those  points,  and  that  it  would  be  a  great 
relief  to  him  to  obtain  some  assistance,  if  he  could  do  so  by  any 
honorable  moans,  for  he  was  determined  to  employ  no  other.  I  went 
on  that  occasion  to  Sir  R.  Peel,  from  whom  I  met  witii  the  most  per- 
fect sympathy  as  regarded  the  object  I  had  in  view  ;  and  it  was  to 
me  a  most  interesting  fact  that  that  great  man,  governing  the  desti- 
nies of  this  mighty  nation,  and  engaged  as  he  was  in  the  gravest 
pursuits,  could  nevertheless  be  drawn,  by  the  force  of  human  sym- 
pathy, to  take  a  deep  interest  in  this  simple  man  of  letters.  What 
was  done  on  that  occasion  was  sufficient  for  the  pur^-iose.  I  will  ask 
you,  therefore,  in  looking  upon  this  bast,  to  regard  it  as  a  memorial 
not  only  of  the  interest  of  his  friends,  but  as  a  memorial  of  national 
interest  for  a  national  name.  It  consists,  as  you  perceive,  of  a  plain 
bust  upon  a  pedestal.  I  have  always  thought  that  a  man's  bust  is 
the  best  monument  which  could  be  raised  to  him  ;  it  is  that  which  ia 
most  calculated  to  show  people  who  come  after  him  what  he  really 
was,  and  it  is  l!:!a3  dumb  and  less  vacant  than  the  monuments  which 
we  see  mostly  around  us.  It  is  perfectly  true  that,  generally  speak- 
ing, we  find  that  basts  represent  the  dead  when  we  could  wish  they 
represented  the  li\dng  ;  it  is  perfectly  true,  also,  that  in  our  every- 
day walk  among  living  busts  we  see  men  of  genius,  whom  we  do  not 
recognize,  and  whose  services  and  virtues  we  do  not  honor  ;  and, 
after  all,  this  may,  perhaps,  be  but  a  poor  acknowledgment  of  tha 


LIFE   OF   HOOD.  XXVll 

worth  of  the  poet  and  humorist ;  but  still  here  it  is,  and  we  have 
raised  it,  and  I  trust  all  will  feel  that  in  so  doing  we  liave  not  done 
honor  to  him,  but  to  ourselves.  I  remember  that  at  the  time  of  his 
fatal  illness  I  Avas  very  much  haunted  with  the  recollection  of  some 
lines  of  his,  which,  I  dare  say,  some  of  you  remember.  They  are 
contained  in  a  little  poem  called  The  Death-bed  — 

'  We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 
Iler  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

'  So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 
So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

*  Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears. 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

'  For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours.' 

Thomas  Hood  haa  now  another  morn  than  ours  —  may  that  mom 
have  brightened  into  perfect  day!  May  his  spirit  look  down  with 
gi'atification  upon  us  who  have  raised  this  modest  homage  to  him  — 
may  ho  look  down  with  pleasure  on  those  he  has  loft  behind  him,  and 
who  inherit  his  honor  and  his  name  —  and  may  we  all  bear  home 
with  us  the  consoling  reflection,  tliat  the  fiime  of  which  a  wise 
and  honest  man  should  bo  ambitious  is  not  that  of  acquiring  wealth 
power,  or  even  earning  clamorous  applause,  but  the  attaming  of 
such  homage  as  we  are  now  paying  to  one  who  among  us  was  a 
brother  and  a  friend  —  one  Avho  may  make  us  at  the  same  time 
thankful  to  the  age  in  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  cast  our 
lot,  and  grateful  to  the  race  and  country  of  which  we  are  common 
citizens  and  men." 

The  monument  consists  of  a  large  bronze  bust  of  Hood,  elevated 
on  a  handsome  pedestal  of  polished  red  granite.     On  a  slab  beneath 


XXVm  LIPE    OF   HOOD. 

the  bust  is  his  own  self-inscribed  epitaph  —  "He  sang  '  The  Song  of 
the  Shirt'  ;"  and  upon  the  projecting  front  of  the  pedestal  the 
inscription  is  carved — "In  memory  of  2rf)oma(3  ?^ooiJ,  born  23d 
of  iMay,  1798  ;  died  3d  of  May,  1845  ;  erected  by  public  subscrip- 
tion A.D.  1854."  On  the  sides  of  the  pedestal  are  medallions  illus- 
trating "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs  "  and  "  The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram." 
The  monument  is  the  work  of  Mr.  Matthew  Xoble.  It  is  simple  in 
design,  and  correctly  executed,  and  looks  well  in  the  midst  of  the 
medley  of  monuments  with  which  Kensal-green  is  filling.  But,  in- 
dependently of  any  consideration  of  that  kind,  this  must  ever  l">9 
one  of  the  chief  treasures  of  the  olace. 


THE   PLEA 


OF 


THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIUIES. 


i'O   CHARLES    LAMB. 

My  dear  Friend  :  I  thank  my  literary  fortune  that  I  am  not  reduced,  like  many 
better  wits,  to  barter  dedications,  for  the  hope  or  promise  of  patronage,  with  some  nomi- 
nally great  man  ;  but  that  where  true  affection  points,  and  honest  respect,  I  am  free  to 
gratify  my  head  and  heart  by  a  sincere  inscription.  An  intimacy  and  dearness,  worthy 
of  a  much  earlier  date  than  our  acquaintance  can  refer  to,  direct  me  at  once  to  your  name  • 
and  with  this  acknowledgment  of  your  ever  kind  feeling  towards  me,  I  desire  to  record  a 
respect  and  admiration  for  you  as  a  writer,  which  no  one  acquainted  with  our  literature, 
save  Elia  himself,  will  think  disproportionate  or  misplaced.  If  I  had  not  these  better 
reasons  to  govern  me,  I  should  be  guided  to  the  same  selection  by  your  intense  yet  criti- 
cal relish  for  the  works  of  our  great  Dramatist,  and  for  that  favorite  play  In  particular 
which  has  furnished  the  subject  of  my  verses. 

It  is  my  design,  in  the  following  Poem,  to  celebrate  by  an  allegory  that  immortality 
which  Shakspeare  has  conferred  on  the  Fairy  mythology  by  his  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  But  for  hhn,  those  pretty  children  of  our  childhood  would  leave  barely  their 
names  to  our  maturer  years  ;  they  belong,  as  the  mites  upon  the  plum,  to  the  bloom  of 
fancy,  a  thing  generally  too  frail  and  beautiful  to  withstand  the  rude  handling  of  Time  : 
but  the  Poet  has  made  this  most  perishable  part  of  the  mind's  creation  equal  to  the  most 
enduring  ;  he  has  so  intertwined  the  Elfins  with  human  sympathies,  and  linked  them  by 
60  many  delightful  associations  with  the  productions  of  nature,  that  they  are  as  real  to  the 
mind's  eye  as  their  green  magical  circles  to  the  outer  sense. 

It  would  have  been  a  pity  for  such  a  race  to  go  e.xtinct,  even  though  they  were  but  as 
the  butterflies  that  hover  about  the  leaves  and  blossoms  of  the  visible  world. 

I  am,  my  dear  friend. 

Yours,  most  truly, 
T.  Hood. 


THE 

PLEA   OF   THE  MIDSUMMER  FMRIES. 


'T  AVAS  in  that  mellow  season  of  the  year 

"When  the  hot  Sun  singes  the  yellow  leaves 

Till  they  be  gold,  and  with  a  broader  sphere 

The  Moon  looks  down  on  Ceres  and  her  sheaves ; 

When  more  abundantly  the  spider  weaves, 

And  the  cold  wind  breathes  from  a  chillier  clime ; 

That  forth  I  fared,  on  one  of  those  still  eves, 

Touched  with  the  dewy  sadness  of  the  time, 

To  think  how  the  bright  months  had  spent  their  prima 

So  that,  wherever  I  addressed  my  way, 

I  seemed  to  track  the  melancholy  feet 

Of  him  that  is  the  Father  of  Decay, 

And  spoils  at  once  the  sour  weed  and  the  sweet ;  — 

Wherefore  regretfully  I  made  retreat 

To  some  unwasted  regions  of  my  brain, 

Charmed  with  the  light  of  summer  and  the  heat, 

And  bade  that  bounteous  season  bloom  again, 

And  sprout  fresh  flowers  in  mine  own  domain. 

It  was  a  shady  and  sequestered  scene. 
Like  those  famed  gardens  of  Boccaccio, 
Planted  Avith  his  own  laurels  ever  green, 
And  roses  that  for  endless  summer  blow  ; 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 

AnO  <Jiere  \Yttvh  fountain  springs  to  overflow 
Theii"  marble  basins ;  and  cool  green  arcades 
Of  tall  0  erarcbing  sycamores,  to  throw 
Aihwart  the  dappled  path  their  dancing  shades ; 
With  timid  conejs  cropping  the  green  blades. 

And  there  were  crystal  pools,  peopled  with  fish, 
Argent  and  gold :  and  some  of  Tjrian  skin, 
Some  crimson-barred :  —  and  ever  at  a  wish 
Thej  rose  obsequious  till  the  wave  grew  thin 
As  glass  upon  their  backs,  and  then  dived  in, 
Quenching  their  ardent  scales  in  watery  gloom  ; 
Whilst  others  with  fresh  hues  rowed  forth  to  win 
My  changeable  regard, —  for  so  we  doom 
Things  born  of  thought  to  vanish  or  to  bloom. 

And  there  were  many  birds  of  many  dyes, 
From  tree  to  tree  still  farincf  to  and  fro, 
And  stately  peacocks  with  their  splendid  eyes, 
And  gorgeous  pheasants  with  their  golden  glow, 
Like  Iris  just  bedabbled  in  her  bow, 
Besides  some  vocalists,  without  a  name. 
That  oft  on  fairy  errands  come  and  go, 
With  accents  magical ;  —  and  all  were  tame, 
And  pecked  at  my  hand  where'er  I  came. 

And  for  my  sylvan  company,  in  lieu 
Of  Pampinea  with  her  lively  peers. 
Sate  Queen  Titania  with  her  pretty  crew. 
All  in  their  liveries  quaint,  with  elfin  gears ; 
For  she  was  gracious  to  my  childish  years. 
And  made  me  free  of  her  enchanted  round  ; 
Wherefore  this  dreamy  scene  she  still  endears, 
And  plants  her  court  upon  a  verdant  mound. 
Fenced  with  umbrageous  woods  and  groves  profound. 


THE    PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

'« Ah.  mc,"  she  cries,  "was  ever  moonlight  seen 
So  clear  and  tender  for  our  midnight  trips  ] 
Go  some  one  forth,  and  with  a  trump  convene 
My  lieges  all !  "  — Away  the  goblin  skips 
A  pace  or  two  apart,  and  deftly  strips 
The  ruddy  skin  from  a  sweet  rose's  cheek, 
Then  blows  the  shuddering  leaf  between  his  lips, 
Making  it  utter  forth  a  shrill  small  shriek, 
Like  a  frayed  bird  in  the  gray  owlet's  beak. 

And,  lo  !  upon  my  fixed  delighted  ken 
Appeared  the  loyal  Fays.     Some  by  degrees 
Crept  from  the  primrose-buds  that  opened  then. 
And  some  from  bell-shaped  blossoms  like  the  bees , 
Some  from  the  dewy  meads,  and  rushy  leas, 
Flew  up  like  chafers  when  the  rustics  pass ; 
Some  from  the  rivers,  others  from  tall  trees 
Dropped,  like  shed  blossoms,  silent  to  the  grass, 
Spii'its  and  elfins  small,  of  every  class. 

Peri  and  Pixy,  and  quaint  Puck  the  Antic, 
Brought  Robin  Goodfellow,  that  merry  swain ; 
And  stealthy  Mab,  queen  of  old  realms  romantic, 
Came  too,  from  distance,  in  her  tiny  wain, 
Fresh  dripping  from  a  cloud  —  some  bloomy  rain, 
Then  circling  the  bright  Moon,  had  washed  her  car, 
And  still  bedewed  it  with  a  various  stain  : 
Lastly  came  Ariel,  shooting  from  a  star, 
"Who  bears  all  fairy  embassies  afar. 

But  Oberon,  that  night  elsewhere  exiled, 
Was  absent,  whether  some  distempered  spleen 
Kept  him  and  his  fair  mate  unreconciled, 
Or  warfare  with  the  Gnome  (whose  race  had  been 
1* 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

Sometimes  obnoxious),  kept  liim  from  his  queen, 
And  made  her  now  peruse  the  starry  skies 
Prophetical  with  such  an  absent  mien ; 
Howbeit,  the  tears  stole  often  to  her  ejes, 
And  oft  the  Moon  was  incensed  with  her  siirhs  — 

Which  made  the  elves  sport  drearily,  and  soon 
Their  hushing  dances  languished  to  a  stand, 
Like  midnight  leaves  when,  as  the  Zephji-s  swoon, 
All  on  their  drooping  stems  they  sink  unfanned, — 
So  into  silence  drooped  the  fairy  band. 
To  see  their  empress  dear  so  pale  and  still. 
Crowding  her  softly  round  on  either  hand, 
As  pale  as  frosty  snow-di-ops,  and  as  chill. 
To  whom  the  sceptred  dame  reveals  her  ill 

"  Alas  !  '■  quoth  she,  '•  ye  know  our  fairy  li^es 
Are  leased  upon  the  fickle  faith  of  men  : 
Not  measured  out  against  fate's  mortal  knives 
Like  human  gossamers,  we  perish  when 
We  fade,  and  are  forgot  in  worldly  ken. — 
Though  poesy  has  thus  prolonged  our  date. 
Thanks  be  to  the  sweet  Bard's  auspicious  pen 
That  rescued  us  so  long  !  —  howbeit  of  late 
I  feel  some  dark  misgivings  of  our  fate. 

••'  And  this  dull  day  my  melancholy  sleep 
Hath  been  so  thronged  with  images  of  woe, 
That  even  now  I  cannot  choose  but  weep 
To  think  this  was  some  sad  prophetic  show 
Of  future  horror  to  befall  us  so. — 
Of  mortal  wreck  and  uttermost  distress. — 
Yea,  oui-  poor  empu-e's  fall  and  overthrow, — 
Tor  this  was  my  long  vision's  dreadftd  stress. 
And  when  I  waked  my  trouble  was  not  less. 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   TAIIIIES. 

"  Whenever  to  tlic  clouds  I  tried  to  seek, 
Such  leaden  weight  dragged  these  Icarian  wings, 
Uy  faithless  wand  was  wavering  and  weak, 
And  slimy  toads  had  trespassed  in  our  rings  — 
The  birds  refused  to  sing  for  me  —  all  things 
Disowned  their  old  allegiance  to  our  spells ;  ^ 
The  rude  bees  pricked  me  with  their  rebel  stings ; 
And,  when  I  passed,  the  valley-lily's  bells 
Rang  out,  methought,  most  melancholy  knells. 

"  And  ever  on  the  faint  and  flagging  air 

A  doleful  spirit  with  a  dreary  note 

Cried  in  my  fearful  ear,  '  Prepare  !  prepare  !  ' 

Which  soon  I  knew  came  from  a  raven's  throat, 

Perched  on  a  cypress-bough  not  far  remote,- 

A  cursed  bird,  too  crafty  to  be  shot. 

That  alway  cometh  with  his  soot-black  coat 

To  make  hearts  dreary  :  —  for  he  is  a  blot 

Upon  the  book  of  life,  as  well  ye  wot !  — 

"  Wherefore  some  while  I  bribed  him  to  be  mute, 
"With  bitter  acorns  stuffing  his  foul  maw, 
Which  barely  I  appeased,  when  some  fresh  bruit 
Startled  me  all  aheap  !  —  and  soon  I  saw 
The  horridest  shape  that  ever  raised  my  awe,— 
A  monstrous  giant,  very  huge  and  tall. 
Such  as  in  elder  times,  devoid  of  law, 
With  wicked  might  grieved  the  primeval  ball, 
And  this  was  sure  the  deadliest  of  them  all  ! 

"  Gaunt  was  he  as  a  wolf  of  Languedoc, 
With  bloody  jaws,  and  frost  upon  his  crown  ; 
So  from  his  barren  poll  one  hoary  lock 
Over  liis  wrinkled  front  fell  far  adown, 


THE   PLEA   OF   THE   MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

Well-nigh  to  where  his  frosty  brows  did  frown 
Like  jagged  icicles  at  cottage  eaves  ; 
And  for  his  coronal  he  wore  some  brown 
And  bristled  ears  gathered  from  Ceres'  sheaves, 
Entwined  with  certain  sere  and  russet  leaves. 

"  And,  lo  !  upon  a  mast  reared  far  aloft, 
He  bore  a  very  bright  and  crescent  blade. 
The  which  he  waved  so  dreadfully,  and  oft. 
In  meditative  spite,  that,  sore  dismayed, 
I  crept  into  an  acorn-cup  for  shade  ; 
Meanwhile  the  horrid  effigy  went  by  : 
I  trow  his  look  was  dreadful,  for  it  made 
The  trembling  birds  betake  them  to  the  sky. 
For  every  leaf  was  lifted  by  his  sigh. 

"  And  ever,  as  he  sighed,  his  foggy  breath 
Blurred  out  the  landscape  like  a  flight  of  smoke  : 
Thence  knew  I  this  was  either  dreary  Death 
Or  Time,  who  leads  all  creatures  to  his  stroke. 
Ah,  wretched  me  !  "  —  Here,  even  as  she  spoke, 
The  melancholy  Shape  came  gliding  in, 
And  leaned  his  back  against  an  antique  oak. 
Folding  his  wmgs,  that  were  so  fine  and  thin. 
They  scarce  were  seen  against  the  Dryad's  skin. 

Then  what  a  fear  seized  all  the  little  rout ! 
Look  how  a  flock  of  panicked  sheep  will  stare  — 
And  huddle  close  —  and  start  —  and  wheel  about. 
Watching  the  roaming  mongrel  here  and  there, — 
So  did  that  sudden  Apparition  scare 
All  close  aheap  those  small  affrighted  things  ; 
Nor  sought  they  now  the  safety  of  the  air. 
As  if  some  leaden  spell  withheld  their  wings ; 
But  who  can  fly  that  ancientest  of  Kings  ? 


THE   PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 

Whom  now  the  Queen,  with  a  forestalling  tear 
And  previous  sigh,  beginneth  to  entreat, 
Bidding  him  spare,  for  love,  her  lieges  dear  : 
"  Alas  !  "  quoth  she,  "  is  there  no  nodding  wheat 
Ripe  for  thy  crooked  weapon,  and  mo  re 'meet, — 
Or  withered  leaves  to  ravish  from  the  tree, — 
Or  crumbling  battlements  for  thy  defeat  7 
Think  but  what  vaunting  monuments  there  be 
Builded  in  spite  and  mockery  of  thee. 

"0,  fret  away  the  fabric  walls  of  Fame, 
And  grind  down  marble  Caesars  with  the  dust : 
Make  tombs  inscriptionless  —  raze  each  high  name, 
And  waste  old  armors  of  renown  with  rust : 
Do  all  of  this,  and  thy  revenge  is  just : 
Make  such  decays  the  trophies  of  thy  prime, 
And  check  Ambition's  overweening  lust, 
That  dares  exterminating  war  with  Time, — 
But  we  are  guiltless  of  that  lofty  crime. 

•'•  Frail,  feeble  sprites  !  —  the  children  of  a  dream  ! 

Leased  on  the  sufferance  of  fickle  men, 

Like  motes  dependent  on  the  sunny  beam, 

Li  vino;  but  in  the  sun's  indulgent  ken, 

And  when  that  light  withdraws,  withdrawing  then  ; 

So  do  we  flutter  in  the  glance  of  youth 

And  fervid  fancy, —  and  so  perish  when 

The  eye  of  faith  grows  aged  ;  —  in  sad  truth, 

Feeling  thy  sway,  0  Time  !  though  not  thy  tooth  ! 

"  Where  be  those  old  divinities  forlorn, 
That  cwelt  in  trees,  or  haunted  in  a  stream  1 
Alas  !  their  memories  are  dimmed  and  torn. 
Like  the  remainder  tatters  of  a  dream  : 


10  THE    PLEA    OF    THE   MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

So  will  it  fore  with  our  poor  thrones,  I  deem  ;  — 
For  us  the  same  dark  trench  Oblivion  delves, 
That  holds  the  wastes  of  everj  human  scheme. 
0,  spare  us  then, —  and  these  our  pretty  elves, 
We  soon,  alas  !  shall  perish  of  ourselves  !  " 

Now  as  she  ended,  with  a  sigh,  to  name 
Those  old  Olympians,  scattered  by  the  whirl 
Of  fortune's  giddy  wheel  and  brought  to  shame, 
Methought  a  scornful  and  malignant  curl 
Showed  on  the  lips  of  that  malicious  churl. 
To  think  what  noble  havocs  he  had  made  : 
So  that  I  feared  he  all  at  once  would  hurl 
The  harmless  fairies  into  endless  shade, — 
Howbeit  he  stopped  a  while  to  whet  his  blade. 

Pity  it  was  to  hear  the  elfins'  wail 
Eise  up  in  concert  from  their  mingled  dread  ; 
Pity  it  was  to  see  them,  all  so  pale. 
Gaze  on  the  grass  as  for  a  dying  bed  ;  — 
But  Puck  was  seated  on  a  spider's  thread, 
That  hung  between  two  branches  of  a  brier. 
And  'gan  to  swing  and  gambol  heels  o'er  head. 
Like  any  Southwark  tumbler  on  a  wire. 
For  him  no  present  grief  could  long  inspire. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen  with  many  piteous  drops, 
Falling  like  tiny  sparks  full  fast  and  free. 
Bedews  a  pathway  from  her  throne  ;  —  and  stops 
Before  the  foot  of  her  arch  enemy, 
And  with  her  little  arms  enfolds  his  knee, 
That  shows  more  gristly  from  that  fair  embrace  : 
But  she  will  ne'er  depart.     "  Alas  !  "  quoth  she, 
"My  painful  fingers  I  will  here  enlace 
Till  I  have  gained  your  pity  for  our  race. 


THE   PLEA    OF   THE   MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES.  H 

"What  have  we  ever  done  to  earn  this  grudge, 
And  hate—  (if  not  too  humble  for  thy  hating  1)  — 
Look  o'er  our  labors  and  our  lives,  and  judge 
If  there  be  any  ills  of  our  creating  ; 
For  -w-e  are  very  kindly  creatures,  dating 
With  nature's  charities  still  sweet  and  bland  :  — 
0,  think  this  murder  worthy  of  debating  !  "  — 
Herewith  she  makes  a  signal  with  her  hand, 
To  beckon  some  one  from  the  Fairy  band. 

Anon  I  saw  one  of  those  elfin  things. 

Clad  all  in  white  like  any  chorister, 

Come  fluttering  forth  on  his  melodious  wings. 

That  made  soft  music  at  each  little  stir, 

But  something  louder  than  a  bee's  demur 

Before  he  lights  upon  a  bunch  of  broom. 

And  thus  'gan  he  with  Saturn  to  confer, — 

And,  0,  his  voice  was  sweet,  touched  with  the  gloom 

Of  that  sad  theme  that  argued  of  his  doom  ! 

Quoth  he,  "  We  make  all  melodies  our  care, 
That  no  false  discords  may  offend  the  Sun, 
Music's  great  master  —  tuning  everywhere 
All  pastoral  sounds  and  melodies,  each  one 
Duly  to  place  and  season,  so  that  none 
May  harshly  interfere.     We  rouse  at  morn 
The  shrill  sweet  lark ;  and  when  the  day  is  done, 
Hush  silent  pauses  for  the  bird  forlorn. 
That  singeth  with  her  breast  against  a  thorn. 

"  We  gather  in  loud  choirs  the  twittering  race, 
That  make  a  chorus  with  their  single  note  ; 
And  tend  on  new-fledged  birds  in  every  place. 
That  duly  they  may  get  their  tunes  by  rote  ; 


12  THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMEK    FAIRIES. 

And  oft,  like  echoes,  answering  remote, 
We  hide  in  thickets  from  the  feathered  throns:. 
And  strain  in  rivalship  each  throbbing  throat, 
Singing  in  shrill  responses  all  day  long, 
Whilst  the  glad  truant  listens  to  our  song. 

"  Wherefore,  great  King  of  Years,  as  thou  dost  love 
The  rainincf  music  from  a  mo/ninor  cloud. 
When  vanished  larks  are  caroling  above, 
To  wake  Apollo  with  their  pipogs  loud  :  — 
If  ever  thou  hast  heard  in  leafy  shroud 
The  sweet  and  plaintive  Sappho  of  the  dell, 
Show  thy  sweet  mercy  on  this  little  crowd. 
And  we  will  muffle  up  the  sheepfold  bell 
Whene'er  thou  listenest  to  Philomel."' 

Then  Saturn  thus  :   "  Sweet  is  the  merry  lark, 
That  carols  in  man's  ear  so  clear  and  strono-  • 
And  youth  must  love  to  listen  in  the  dark 
That  tuneful  elegy  of  Tereus'  wrong  :  , 

But  I  have  heard  that  ancient  strain  too  lon^, 
For  sweet  is  sweet  but  when  a  little  strancre, 
And  I  grow  weary  for  some  newer  song ; 
For  wherefore  had  I  wings,  unless  to  range 
Through  all  things  mutable  from  change  to  change  1 

"But  wouldst  thou  hear  the  melodies  of  Time, 
Listen  when  sleep  and  drowsy  darkness  roll 
Over  hushed  cities,  and  the  midnight  chime 
Sounds  from  their  hundred  clocks,  and  deep  bells  toll 
Like  a  last  knell  over  the  dead  world" s  soul. 
Saying,  Time  shall  be  final  of  all  things. 
Whose  late,  last  voice  must  elegize  the  whole, — 
0,  then  I  clap  aloft  my  brave  broad  wings, 
And  make  the  wide  air  tremble  while  it  rinss !  " 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES.  iO 

Then  next  a  fair  Eve-Faj  made  meek  address, 
Saying.  "We  be  the  handmaids  of  the  Spring, 
In  sign  -whereof.  May,  the  quaint  broideress, 
Hath  wrought  her  samplers  on  our  gauzy  wing. 
We  tend  upon  buds"  birth  and  blossoming, 
And  count  the  leafy  tributes  that  they  owe  — 
As.  so  much  to  the  eai-th  —  so  much  to  fling 
In  showers  to  the  brook  —  so  much  to  go 
In  whu-lwinds  to  the  clouds  that  made  them  grow. 

"  The  pastoral  cowslips  are  our  little  pets, 
And  daisy  stars,  whose  fii-mament  is  green ; 
Pansies,  and  those  veiled  nuns,  meek  violets, 
Sighing  to  that  wai-m  world  from  which  they  screen ; 
And  golden  daffodils,  plucked  for  May"s  Queen  ; 
And  lonely  harebells,  quaking  on  the  heath ; 
And  Hyacinth,  long  since  a  fair  youth  seen, 
Whose  tuneful  voice,  turned  fi-agi-ance  in  his  breath, 
Kissed  by  sad  Zephyr,  guilty  of  his  death. 

''  The  widowed  primi'ose  weeping  to  the  moon, 
And  saffi-on  crocus  in  whose  chalice  bright 
A  cool  libation  hoarded  for  the  noon 
Is  kept  —  and  she  that  purifies  the  light, 
The  virgin  lily,  faithful  to  her  white, 
Whereon  Eve  wept  in  Eden  for  her  shame ; 
And  the  most  dainty  rose,  Aurora's  spright, 
Our  every  godchild,  by  whatever  name  — 
Spare  us  our  lives,  for  we  did  nurse  the  same !  " 

Then  that  old  Mower  stamped  his  heel,  and  struck 
His  hurtful  scythe  against  the  harmless  gi-ound. 
Saying.  •  •  Ye  foolish  imps,  when  am  I  stuck 
With  gaudy  buds,  or  like  a  wooer  crowned 
2 


14  THE    PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

With  flowery  chaplets,  save  when  they  are  found 
Withered  7  —  Whenever  have  I  plucked  a  rose, 

Except  to  scatter  its  vain  leaves  around  7 

For  so  all  gloss  of  beauty  I  oppose, 

And  bring  decay  on  every  flower  that  blows. 

"  Or  when  am  I  so  wroth  as  when  I  view 

The  wanton  pride  of  Summer :  —  how  she  decks 

The  birth-day  world  with  blossoms  ever  new, 

As  if  Time  had  not  lived,  and  heaped  great  wrecks 

Of  years  on  years?  —  0,  then  I  bravely  vex 

And  catch  the  gay  Months  in  their  gaudy  plight. 

And  slay  them  with  the  wreaths  about  their  necks. 

Like  foolish  heifers  in  the  holy  rite, 

And  raise  great  trophies  to  my  ancient  might !  " 

Then  saith  another,  ' '  We  are  kindly  things. 
And  like  her  oflspring  nestle  with  the  dove, — 
Witness  these  hearts  embroidered  on  our  wings, 
To  show  our  constant  patronage  of  love :  — 
We  sit  at  even,  in  sweet  bowers  above 
Lovers,  and  shake  rich  odors  on  the  air, 
To  mingle  with  their  sighs ;  and  still  remove 
The  startling  owl,  and  bid  the  bat  forbear 
Their  privacy,  and  haunt  some  other  where. 

'• '  And  we  are  near  the  mother  when  she  sits 
Beside  her  infant  in  its  wicker  bed  ; 
And  we  are  in  the  fairy  scene  that  flits 
Across  its  tender  brain  :  sweet  dreams  we  shed, 
And  whilst  the  tender  little  soul  is  fled 
Away,  to  sport  with  our  young  elves,  the  while 
We  touch  the  dimpled  cheek  with  roses  red, 
And  tickle  the  soft  lips  until  they  smile. 
So  that  their  careful  parents  they  beguile. 


THE    TLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES.  15 

0,  then,  if  ever  thou  hast  breathed  a  vow 
At  Love's  dear  portal,  or  at  pale  moon-rise 
Crushed  the  dear  curl  on  a  regardful  brow 
That  did  not  frown  thee  from  thj  honej  prize  — 
If  ever  thj  sweet  son  sat  on  thy  thighs, 
And  wooed  thee  from  thy  careful  thoughts  within 
To  watch  the  harmless  beauty  of  his  eyes, 
Or  glad  thy  fingers  on  his  smooth  soft  skin. 
For  love's  dear  sake,  let  us  thy  pity  win  !  " 

Then  Saturn  fiercely  thus  :    "  What  joy  have  I 
In  tender  babes,  that  have  devoured  mine  own, 
"Whenever  to  the  light  I  heard  them  cry, 
Till  foolish  Rhea  cheated  me  with  stone  7 
Whereon,  till  now,  is  my  great  hunger  shown, 
In  monstrous  dints  of  my  enormous  tooth  ; 
And, —  but  the  peopled  world  is  too  full  grown 
For  hunger's  edge, —  I  would  consume  all  youth 
At  one  great  meal,  without  delay  or  ruth  ! 

"  For  I  am  well-nigh  crazed  and  wild  to  hear 
How  boastful  fathers  taunt  me  with  their  breed, 
Saying,  '  We  shall  not  die  nor  disappear. 
But  in  these  other  selves,  ourselves  succeed, 
Even  as  ripe  flowers  pass  into  their  seed 
Only  to  be  renewed  from  prime  to  prime,' 
All  of  which  boastings  I  am  forced  to  read. 
Besides  a  thousand  challenges  to  Time 
Which  bragging  lovers  have  compiled  in  rhyme. 

"Wherefore,  when  they  are  sweetly  met  o'  nights, 
There  will  I  steal,  and  with  my  hurried  hand 
Startle  them  suddenly  from  their  delights 
Before  their  next  encounter  hath  been  planned, 


16  THE   PLEA    OF   THE   MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

Ravishing  hours  in  little  minutes  spanned  ; 
But  when  thej  say  farewell,  and  grieve  apart, 
Then  like  a  leaden  statue  I  will  stand, 
Meanwhile  their  many  tears  incrust  my  dart, 
And  with  a  ragged  edge  cut  heart  from  heart." 

Then  next  a  merry  Woodsman,  clad  in  green, 
Stept  vanward  from  his  mates,  that  idly  stood 
Each  at  his  proper  ease,  as  they  had  been 
Nursed  in  the  liberty  of  old  Sherwood, 
And  wore  the  livery  of  Robin  Hood, 
Who  wont  in  forest  shades  to  dine  and  sup, — 
So  came  this  chief  right  frankly,  and  made  gooa 
His  haunch  against  his  axe,  and  thus  spoke  up, 
Doffing  his  cap,  which  was  an  acorn's  cup  : 

"  We  be  small  foresters  and  gay,  who  tend 
On  trees  and  all  their  furniture  of  green. 
Training  the  young  boughs  airily  to  bend. 
And  show  blue  snatches  of  the  sky  between ;  — 
Or  knit  more  close  intricacies,  to  screen 
Birds'  crafty  dwellings  as  may  hide  them  best, 
But  most  the  timid  blackbird's  —  she,  that  seen, 
Will  bear  black  poisonous  berries  to  her  nest. 
Lest  man  should  cage  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 

"  We  bend  each  tree  in  proper  attitude. 
And  founting  willows  train  in  silvery  falls ; 
We  frame  all  shady  roofs  and  arches  rude. 
And  verdant  aisles  leading  to  Dryads'  halls. 
Or  deep  recesses  where  the  Echo  calls ;  — 
We  shape  all  plumy  trees  against  the  sky, 
And  carve  tall  elms'  Corinthian  capitals, — 
When  sometimes,  as  our  tiny  hatchets  ply, 
Men  say,  the  tapping  woodpecker  is  nigh. 


THE   PLEA   OF   THE   MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES.  17 

"  Sometimes  we  scoop  the  squirrel's  hollow  cell, 

And  sometimes  carve  quaint  letters  on  trees'  rind, 

That  haply  some  lone  musing  wight  may  spell 

Dainty  Aminta, —  gentle  Rosalind, — 

Or  chastest  Laura, —  sweetly  called  to  mind 

In  sylvan  solitudes,  ere  he  lies  down ;  — 

And  sometimes  we  enrich  gray  stems,  with  twined 

And  vagrant  ivy, —  or  rich  moss,  whose  hrown 

Burns  into  gold  as  the  warm  sun  goes  down, 

"  And,  lastly,  for  mirth's  sake  and  Christmas  cheer, 
We  bear  the  seedling  berries,  for  increase, 
To  graft  the  Druid  oaks,  from  year  to  year, 
Careful  that  mistletoe  may  never  cease ;  — 
Wherefore,  if  thou  dost  prize  the  shady  peace 
Of  sombre  forests,  or  to  see  light  break 
Through  sylvan  cloisters,  and  in  spring  release 
Thy  spirit  amongst  leaves  from  careful  ake, 
Spare  us  our  lives  for  the  Green  Dryad's  sake." 

Then  Saturn,  with  a  frown  :    "Go  forth,  and  fell 

Oak  for  your  coffins,  and  thenceforth  lay  by 

Your  axes  for  the  rust,  and  bid  farewell 

To  all  sweet  birds,  and  the  blue  peeps  of  sky 

Through  tangled  branches,  for  ye  shall  not  spy 

The  next  green  generation  of  the  tree  ; 

But  hence  with  the  dead  leaves,  Avhene'er  they  fly, — 

Which  in  the  bleak  air  I  would  rather  see, 

Than  flights  of  the  most  tuneful  birds  that  be. 

"  For  I  dislike  all  prime,  and  verdant  pets, 
Ivy  except,  that  on  the  aged  wall 
Preys  with  its  worm-like  roots,  and  daily  frets 
The  crumbled  tower  it  seems  to  league  withal, 
2* 


18 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 


King-like,  worn  down  bj  its  own  coronal :  — 

Neither  in  forest  haunts  love  I  to  won, 

Before  the  golden  plumage  'gins  to  fall, 

And  leaves  the  brown  bleak  limbs  with  few  leaves  on, 

Or  bare  —  like  Xature  in  her  skeleton. 

'•  For  then  sit  I  amongst  the  crooked  boughs, 
Wooing  dull  Memory  with  kindred  sighs ; 
And  there  in  rustling  nuptials  we  espouse, 
Smit  by  the  sadness  in  each  other's  ejes  ;  — 
But  Hope  must  have  green  bowers  and  blue  skies. 
And  must  be  courted  with  the  gauds  of  spring ; 
Whilst  Youth  leans  godlike  on  her  lap.  and  cries. 
What  shall  we  always  do,  but  love  and  sing  ]  — 
And  Time  is  reckoned  a  discarded  thing:." 

Here  in  my  dream  it  made  me  fret  to  see 

How  Puck,  the  antic,  all  this  dreary  while 

Had  blithely  jested  with  calamity, 

With  mistimed  mirth  mocking  the  doleful  style 

Of  his  sad  comrades,  till  it  raised  my  bile 

To  see  him  so  reflect  their  grief  aside. 

Turning  their  solemn  looks  to  half  a  smile  — 

Like  a  straight  stick  shown  crooked  in  the  tide ;  — 

But  soon  a  novel  advocate  I  spied. 

Quoth  he,  ••  We  teach  all  natures  to  fulfil  "^ 

Their  fore-appointed  crafts,  and  instincts  meet, — 

The  bee's  sweet  alchemy. —  the  spider's  skill, — 

The  pismire's  care  to  garner  up  his  wheat, — 

And  rustic  masonry  to  swallows  fleet, — 

The  lapwing's  cunning  to  preserve  her  nest, — 

But  most  that  lesser  pelican,  the  sweet 

And  shrilly  ruddock,  with  its  bleeding  breast, 

Its  tender  pity  of  poor  babes  distrest. 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 


19 


"  Sometimes  we  cast  our  shapes,  and  in  sleek  skins 
Delve  with  the  timid  mole,  that  aptly  delves 
From  our  example ;  so  the  spider  spins, 
And  eke  the  silk- worm,  patterned  bj  ourselves : 
Sometimes  we  travail  on  the  summer  shelves 
Of  early  bees,  and  busy  toils  commence. 
Watched  of  wise  men,  that  know  not  we  are  elves, 
But  gaze  and  marvel  at  our  stretch  of  sense. 
And  praise  oui*  human-like  intelligence. 

"  Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  that  old  tale, 
And  plaintive  dirges  the  late  robins  sing. 
What  time  the  leaves  are  scattered  by  the  gale, 
jMindful  of  that  old  forest  burying  ;  — 
As  thou  dost  love  to  watch  each  tiny  thing, 
For  whom  our  craft  most  curiously  contrives. 
If  thou  hast  caught  a  bee  upon  the  wing, 
To  take  his  honey-bag, —  spare  us  our  lives. 
And  we  will  pay  the  ransom  in  full  hives." 

"  Now  by  my  glass,"  quoth  Time,  "  ye  do  offend 
In  teaching  the  brown  bees  that  careful  lore, 
And  frugal  ants,  whose  millions  would  have  end, 
But  they  lay  up  for  need  a  timely  store, 
And  travail  with  the  seasons  evermore  ; 
Whereas  Great  Mammoth  long  hath  passea  away, 
And  none  but  I  can  tell  what  hide  he  wore ; 
Whilst  purblind  men,  the  creatures  of  a  day. 
In  riddling  wonder  his  great  bones  survey." 

Then  came  an  elf,  right  beauteous  to  behold, 
TNTiose  coat  was  like  a  brooklet  that  the  sun 
Hath  all  embroidered  with  its  crooked  gold. 
It  was  so  quaintly  wrought  and  overrun 


20  THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

Vrith  spangled  traceries, —  most  meet  for  one 
That  was  a  -warden  of  the  pearly  streams :  — 
And  as  he  stept  out  of  the  shadows  dun, 
His  jewels  sparkled  in  the  pale  moon"s  gleams, 
And  shot  uito  the  air  their  pointed  beams. 

Quoth  he,  '•  We  bear  the  gold  and  silver  kejs 

Of  bubbling  springs  and  fountains,  that  below 

Course  through  the  veinj  earth.—  which,  when  thej  freeze 

Into  hard  crysolites,  we  bid  to  flow, 

Creeping  like  subtle  snakes,  when,  as  thej  go. 

We  guide  their  windings  to  melodious  flills. 

At  whose  soft  murmurings  so  sweet  and  low 

Poets  have  turned  their-  smoothest  madrio-als, 

To  sing  to  ladies  in  their  banquet-halls. 

"And  when  the  hot  sun  with  his  steadfast  heat 

Parches  the  river  god, —  whose  dustj  urn 

Drips  miserly,  till  soon  his  crystal  feet 

Against  his  pebbly  floor  wax  faint  and  burn, 

And  languid  fish,  unpoised,  grow  sick  and  yearn, — 

Then  scoop  we  hollows  in  some  sandy  nook. 

And  little  channels  dig,  wherein  we  turn 

The  thread-worn  rivulet,  that  all  forsook 

The  Xaiad-lily,  pining  for  her  brook. 

'•  Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  cool  green  meads. 

With  living  sapphires  daintily  inlaid, — 

In  all  soft  songs  of  waters  and  their  reeds, — 

And  all  reflections  in  a  streamlet  made. 

Haply  of  thy  own  love,  that,  disarrayed, 

Kills  the  fair  lily  with  a  livelier  white, — 

By  silver  trouts  upspringing  from  green  shade, 

And  winking  stars  reduplicate  at  night. 

Spare  us.  poor  ministers   to  such  delight." 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 


2i 


Howbeit  his  pleading  and  his  gentle  looks 

Moved  not  the  spiteful  Shade  :  —  Quoth  he,  "  Your  taste 

Shoots  wide  of  mine,  for  I  despise  the  brooks 

And  slavish  rivulets  that  run  to  waste 

In  noontide  SAveats,  or,  like  poor  vassals,  haste 

To  swell  the  vast  dominion  of  the  sea, 

In  whose  great  presence  I  am  held  disgraced, 

And  neighbored  with  a  king  that  rivals  me 

In  ancient  might  and  hoary  majesty. 

"  Whereas  I  ruled  in  chaos,  and  still  keep 
The  awful  secrets  of  that  ancient  dearth, 
Before  the  briny  fountains  of  the  deep 
Brimmed  up  the  hollow  cavities  of  earth ;  — 
I  saw  each  trickling  Sea-God  at  his  birth, 
Each  pearly  Naiad  Avith  her  oozy  locks. 
And  infant  Titans  of  enormous  girth, 
"V\Tiose  huge  young  feet  yet  stumbled  on  the  rocks 
Stunning  the  early  world  with  frequent  shocks. 

"  TMiere  now  is  Titan,  with  his  cumbrous  brood, 

That  scared  the  world  ?—  By  this  sharp  scythe  they  fell^ 

And  half  the  sky  was  curdled  with  their  blood : 

So  have  all  primal  giants  sighed  farewell. 

No  Wardens  now  by  sedgy  fountains  dwell, 

Nor  pearly  Naiads.     All  their  days  are  done 

That  strove  with  Time,  untimely,  to  excel ; 

Wherefore  I  razed  their  progenies,  and  none 

But  my  great  shadow  intercepts  the  sun  !  " 

Then  saith  the  timid  Fay,  "0,  mighty  Time  ! 
Well  hast  thou  wi'ought  the  cruel  Titans'  fall, 
For  they  were  stained  with  many  a  bloody  crime : 
Great  giants  work  great  wrongs, —  but  we  are  small, 


22  THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

For  Love  goes  lowlj ;  —  but  Oppression  's  tall, 
And  with  surpassing  strides  goes  foremost  still 
Where  Love  indeed  can  hardlj  reach  at  all ; 
Like  a  poor  dwarf  o"erburthened  with  good  will, 
That  labors  to  efface  the  tracks  of  ill. 

"Man  even  strives  with  Man,  but  we  eschew 
The  guiltj  feud,  and  all  fierce  strifes  abhor  ; 
Nay,  we  are  gentle  as  sweet  heaven's  dew, 
Beside  the  red  and  horrid  drops  of  war. 
Weeping  the  cruel  hates  men  battle  for, 
Which  worldly  bosoms  nourish  in  our  spite : 
For  in  the  gentle  breast  we  ne'er  withdraw, 
But  only  when  all  love  hath  taken  flight. 
And  youth's  warm  gracious  heart  is  hai-dened  quite. 

■'  So  are  our  gentle  natures  intertwined 
With  sweet  humanities,  and  closely  knit 
Li  kindly  sympathy  with  human  kind. 
Witness  how  we  befriend,  with  elfin-wit. 
All  hopeless  maids  and  lovers. —  nor  omit 
Magical  succors  unto  hearts  forlorn  :  — 
We  charm  man's  life,  and  do  not  perish  it ;  -  - 
So  judge  us  by  the  helps  we  showed  this  morn 
To  one  who  held  his  wretched  days  in  scorn. 

"  'T  was  nigh  sweet  Amwell ;  —  for  the  Queen  had  tasked 

Our  skill  to-day  amidst  the  silver  Lea, 

Whereon  the  noontide  sun  had  not  yet  basked  ; 

Wherefore  some  patient  man  we  thought  to  see, 

Planted  in  moss-grown  rushes  ta  the  knee. 

Beside  the  cloudy  margin  cold  and  dim ;  — 

Howbeit  no  patient  fisherman  was  he 

That  cast  his  sudden  shadow  from  the  brim, 

Making  us  leave  our  toils  to  gaze  on  him. 


THE    PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 


23 


"  His  face  was  asliy  pale,  and  leaden  care 
Had  sunk  the  levelled  arches  of  his  broAV, 
Once  bridges  for  his  joyous  thoughts  to  fire 
Over  those  melancholy  springs  and  slow, 
That  from  his  })iteous  eyes  began  to  How, 
And  fell  anon  into  the  chilly  stream  ; 
Which,  as  his  mimicked  image  showed  below, 
Wrinkled  his  face  with  many  a  needless  seam, 
Making  grief  sadder  in  its  own  esteem. 

"  And,  lo  !  upon  the  air  we  saw  him  stretch 
His  passionate  arms  ;  and,  in  a  wayward  strain, 
He  'gan  to  elegize  that  fellow- wretch 
That  with  mute  gestures  answered  him  again, 
Saying,  '  Poor  slave,  how  long  wilt  thou  remain 
Life's  sad  weak  captive  in  a  prison  strong, 
Hoping  with  tears  to  rust  away  thy  chain, 
In  bitter  servitude  to  worldly  wrong  1  — 
Thou  wearest  that  mortal  livery  too  long  ! ' 

"  This,  with  mere  spleenful  speeches  and  some  tears, 

When  he  had  spent  upon  the  imaged  wave, 

Speedily  I  convened  my  elfin  peers 

Under  the  lily-cups,  that  we  might  save 

This  woful  mortal  from  a  wilful  grave 

By  shrewd  diversions  of  his  mind's  regret, 

Seeing  he  was  mere  Melancholy's  slave, 

That  sank  wherever  a  dark  cloud  he  met. 

And  straight  Avas  tangled  in  her  secret  net. 

"  Therefore,  as  still  he  watched  the  water's  flow, 
Daintily  we  transformed,  and  with  bright  fins 
Came  glancing  through  the  gloom  ;   some  from  below 
Rose  like  dim  fancies  when  a  di'cam  begins, 


24  THE    PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 

Snatching  the  light  upon  their  purple  skins ; 
Then  under  the  broad  leaves  made  slow  retire  : 
One  like  a  golden  gallej  bravely  wins 
Its  radiant  course, —  another  glows  like  fire, — 
Making  that  wayward  man  our  pranks  admire. 

"  And  so  he  banished  thought,  and  quite  forgot 

All  contemplation  of  that  wretched  face  ; 

And  so  we  wiled  him  from  that  lonely  spot 

Along  the  river's  brink ;  till,  by  Heaven's  grace, 

He  met  a  gentle  haunter  of  the  place, 

Eull  of  sweet  wisdom  gathered  from  the  brooks, 

Who  there  discussed  his  melancholy  case 

With  wholesome  texts  learned  from  kind  Nature's  books. 

Meanwhile  he  newly  trimmed  his  lines  and  hooks." 

Herewith  the  Fairy  ceased.     Quoth  Ariel  now  — 
"  Let  me  remember  how  I  saved  a  man, 
Whose  fatal  noose  was  fastened  on  a  boug-h, 
Intended  to  abridge  his  sad  life's  span; 
For  haply  I  was  by  when  he  began 
His  stern  soliloquy  in  life's  dispraise, 
And  overheard  his  melancholy  plan, 
How  he  had  made  a  vow  to  end  his  days. 
And  therefore  followed  him  in  all  his  ways, 

"Through  brake  and  tangled  copse,  for  much  he  loathed 

All  populous  haunts,  and  roamed  in  forests  rude 

To  hide  himself  from  man.     But  I  had  clothed 

Mj  delicate  limbs  with  plumes,  and  still  pursued 

Where  only  foxes  and  wild  cats  intrude. 

Till  we  were  come  beside  an  ancient  tree 

Late  blasted  by  a  storm.     Here  he  renewed 

His  loud  complaints, —  choosing  that  spot  to  be 

The  scene  of  his  last  horrid  tragedy. 


THE   PLEA    OF   THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  25 

'■  It  was  a  wild  and  melancholy  glen, 
Made  gloomy  by  tall  firs  and  cypress  dark, 
Wliose  roots,  like  any  bones  of  buried  men, 
Pu^hetl  through  the  rotten  sod  for  fear's  remark ; 
A  hundred  horrid  stems,  jagged  and  stark, 
"Wrestled  with  crooked  arms  in  hideous  fray, 
Besides  sleek  ashes  with  their  dappled  bark. 
Like  crafty  serpents  climbing  for  a  prey, 
^Yith  many  blasted  oaks  moss-grown  and  gray. 

"  But  here  upon  this  final  desperate  clause 

Suddenly  I  pronounced  so  sweet  a  strain. 

Like  a  panged  nightingale  it  made  him  pause, 

Till  half  -the  frenzy  of  his  grief  was  slain, 

The  sad  remainder  oozing  from  his  brain 

In  timely  ecstasies  of  healing  tears,. 

TMiich  through  his  ardent  eyes  began  to  di-ain  ;  — 

jSIeanwhile  the  deadly  fates  unclosed  their  shears :  — 

So  pity  me  and  all  my  fated  peers  !  " 

Thus  Ariel  ended,  and  was  some  time  hushed  : 

When  Avith  the  hoary  shape  a  fresh  tongue  pleads. 

And  red  as  rose  the  gentle  Fairy  blushed 

To  read  the  record  of  her  own  good  deeds :  — 

'•  It  chanced,"  quoth  she,  "  in  seeking  through  the  meada 

For  honeyed  cowslips,  sweetest  in  the  morn, 

"Whilst  yet  the  buds  were  hung  with  dewy  beads, 

And  Echo  answered  to  the  huntsman's  horn, 

^Xe  found  a  babe  left  in  the  swarths  forlorn. 

"A  little,  sorrowful,  deserted  thing, 
Begot  of  love,  and  yet  no  love  begetting ; 
Guiltless  of  shame,  and  yet  for  shame  to  wring ; 
And  too  soon  banished  from  a  mother's  petting, 


26  THE    PLEA    OF    TUE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 

To  churlisli  nurture  and  the  wide  Avorld's  frettino;, 
For  alien  pity  and  unnatural  care ;  — 
Alas  !  to  see  liow  the  cold  dew  kept  wetting 
His  childish  coats,  and  dabbled  all  his  hair, 
Like  gossamers  across  his  forehead  fair. 

"  His  pretty  pouting  mouth,  witless  of  speech, 
Lay  half-way  open  like  a  rose-lipped  shell  ; 
And  his  young  cheek  was  softer  than  a  peach, 
Whereon  his  tears,  for  roundness,  could  not  dwell. 
But  quickly  rolled  themselves  to  pearls,  and  fell, 
Some  on  the  grass,  and  some  against  his  hand, 
Or  haply  wandered  to  the  dimpled  well, 
Which  love  beside  his  mouth  had  sweetly  planned, 
Yet  not  for  tears,  but  mirth  and  smilings  bland. 

' '  Pity  it  was  to  see  those  frequent  tears 
Falling  regardless  from  his  friendless  eyes ; 
There  was  such  beauty  in  those  twin  blue  spheres, 
As  any  mother's  heart  might  leap  to  prize  ; 
Blue  were  they,  like  the  zenith  of  the  skies 
Softened  betwixt  two  clouds,  both  clear  and  mild ;  - 
Just  touched  with  thought,  and  yet  not  over  wise, 
They  showed  the  gentle  spirit  of  a  child, 
Not  yet  by  care  or  any  craft  defiled. 

"  Pity  it  was  to  see  the  ardent  sun 

Scorching  his  helpless  limbs  —  it  shone  so  warm  ; 

For  kindly  shade  or  shelter  he  had  none. 

Nor  mother's  gentle  breast,  come  fair  or  storm. 

Meanwhile  I  bade  my  pitying  mates  transform 

Like  grasshoppers,  and  then,  with  shrilly  cries, 

All  round  the  infant  noisily  we  swarm. 

Haply  some  passing  rustic  to  advise  — 

Whilst  providential  Heaven  our  care  espies. 


THE   PLEA    OF  THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  27 

"  And  sends  full  soon  a  tender-hearted  hind, 
Who,  wondering  at  our  loud  unusual  note, 
Strays  curiously  aside,  and  so  doth  find 
The  orphan  child  laid  in  the  grass  remote, 
And  laps  the  foundling  in  his  russet  coat, 
Wlio  thence  was  nurtured  in  his  kindly  cot :  — 
But  how  he  prospered  let  proud  London  quote, 
How  wise,  how  rich,  and  how  renowned  he  got, 
And  chief  of  all  her.  citizens,  I  wot. 

"  Witness  his  goodly  vessels  on  the  Thames, 

Whose  holds  were  fraught  with  costly  merchandise, — 

Jewels  from  Ind,  and  pearls  for  courtly  dames. 

And  gorgeous  silks  that  Samarcand  supplies  : 

Witness  that  Royal  Bourse  he  bade  arise. 

The  mart  of  merchants  from  the  East  and  West ; 

Whose  slender  summit,  pointing  to  the  skies, 

Still  bears,  in  token  of  his  grateful  bi-east, 

The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest  — 

"  The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest. 

That  all  the  summer,  with  a  tuneful  wing. 

Makes  merry  chirpings  in  its  grassy  nest. 

Inspirited  with  dew  to  leap  and  sing  :  — 

So  let  us  also  live,  eternal  King  ! 

Partakers  of  the  green  and  pleasant  earth :  — 

Pity  it  is  to  slay  the  meanest  thing. 

That,  like  a  mote,  shines  in  the  smile  of  mirth  :  — 

Enough  there  is  of  joy's  decrease  and  dearth  ! 

"  Enough  of  pleasure,  and  delight,  and  beauty, 
Perished  and  gone,  and  hasting  to  decay  ;  — 
Enough  to  sadden  even  thee,  whose  duty 
Or  spite  it  is  to  havoc  and  to  slay  : 


28  THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

Too  many  a  lovely  race,  razed  quite  away, 

Hath  left  large  gaps  in  life  and  human  loving  ;  — 

Here  then  begin  thy  cruel  war  to  stay, 

And  spare  fresh  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans,  reproving 

Thy  desolating  hand  for  our  removing." 

Now  here  I  heard  a  shrill  and  sudden  cry, 
And  looking  up,  I  saw  the  antic  Puck 
Grappling  with  Time,  who  clutched  him  like  a  fly, 
Victim  of  his  own  sport, —  the  jester's  luck  ! 
He,  whilst  his  fellows  grieved,  poor  wight,  had  stuck 
His  freakish  gauds  upon  the  Ancient's  brow. 
And  now  his  ear,  and  now  his  beard,  would  pluck ; 
Whereas  the  angry  churl  had  snatched  him  now, 
Crying,  "  Thou  impish  mischief,  who  art  thou?  '' 

"  Alas  !  "  quoth  Puck,  "  a  little  random  elf, 
Born  in  the  sport  of  nature,  like  a  weed. 
For  simple  sweet  enjoyment  of  myself, 
But  for  no  other  purpose,  worth,  or  need ; 
And  yet  withal  of  a  most  happy  breed ; 
And  there  is  Robin  Goodfellow  besides, 
INIy  partner  dear  in  many  a  prankish  deed 
To  make  dame  Laughter  hold  her  jolly  sides, 
Like  merry  mummers  twain  on  holy  tides. 

"  "Tis  we  that  bob  the  angler's  idle  cork. 

Till  even  the  patient  man  breathes  half  a  curse ; 

"We  steal  the  morsel  from  the  gossip's  fork. 

And  curdling  looks  with  secret  straws  disperse, 

Or  stop  the  sneezing  chanter  at  mid  verse  : 

And  when  an  infant's  beauty  prospers  ill. 

We  change,  some  mothers  say,  the  child  at  nurse ; 

But  any  graver  purpose  to  fulfil, 

We  have  not  wit  enough,  and  scarce  the  will. 


THE   PLEA    OF   THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 

"  We  never  let  the  canker  melancholy 

To  gather  on  our  faces  like  a  rust, 

But  gloss  our  features  with  some  change  of  folly, 

Taking  life's  fabled  miseries  on  trust, 

But  oulv  sorrowing  when  sorrow  must : 

We  ruminate  no  sage's  solemn  cud, 

But  own  ourselves  a  pinch  of  lively  dust 

To  frisk  upon  a  wind. —  whereas  the  flood 

Of  tears  would  turn  us  into  heavy  mud. 

"  Beshi-ew  those  sad  interpreters  of  nature, 

Who  gloze  her  lively  universal  law, 

As  if 'she  had  not  formeil  our  cheerful  feature 

To  be  so  tickled  with  the  slightest  straw  ! 

So  let  them  vex  their  mumping  mouths,  and  draw 

The  corners  downward,  like  a  watery  moon, 

And  deal  in  gusty  sighs  and  rainy  flaw  - 

We  will  not  woo  foul  weather  all  too  soon, 

Or  nurse  November  on  the  lap  of  June. 

"  For  ours  are  winging  sprites,  like  any  bird, 
That  shun  all  stagnant  settlements  of  grief ; 
And  even  in  our  rest  our  hearts  are  stu-red. 
Like  insects  settled  on  a  dancing  leaf :  — 
This  is  our  small  philosophy  in  brief. 
Which  thus  to  teach  hath  set  me  all  agape  : 
But  dost  thou  relish  it  ]    0,  hoary  chief ! 
Unclasp  thy  crooked  fingers  from  my  nape, 
And  I  will  show  thee  many  a  pleasant  scrape." 

Then  Saturn  thus  :  —shaking  his  crooked  blade 
O'erhead,  which  made  aloft  a  lightning  flash 
In  ail  the  fairies'  eyes,  dismally  frayed  ! 
His  ensuing  voice  came  like  the  thunder  crash  — 
3* 


9C> 


THE    PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

Meanwhile  the  bolt  shatters  some  pine  or  ash  — 
"  Thou  feeble,  wanton,  foolish,  fickle  thing  ! 
Whom  naught  can  frighten,  sadden,  or  abash, — 
To  hope  my  solemn  countenance  to  wring 
To  idiot  smiles  !  —  but  I  will  prune  th j  wing  ! 

"  Lo  !  this  most  awful  handle  of  my  scythe 
Stood  once  a  May-pole,  with  a  flowery  crown. 
Which  rustics  danced  around,  and  maidens  blithe, 
To  wanton  pipings  ;  —  but  I  plucked  it  down, 
And  robed  the  May  Queen  in  a  church-yard  gown, 
Turning  her  buds  to  rosemary  and  rue  ; 
And  all  their  merry  minstrelsy  did  drown, 
And  laid  each  lusty  leaper  in  the  dew  ;  — 
So  thou  shalt  fare —  and  every  jovial  crew  !  " 

Here  he  lets  go  the  struggling  imp,  to  clutch 
His  mortal  engine  with  each  grisly  hand, 
Which  frights  the  elfin  progeny  so  much. 
They  huddle  in  a  heap,  and  trembling  stand 
All  round  Titania,  like  the  queen  bee's  band. 
With  sighs  and  tears  and  very  shrieks  of  woe  !  — 
Meanwhile,  some  moving  argument  I  planned. 
To  make  the  stern  Shade  merciful, —  when,  lo  ! 
He  drops  his  fatal  scythe  without  a  blow  ! 

For,  just  at  need,  a  timely  Apparition 

Steps  in  between,  to  bear  the  awful  brunt ; 

INIaking  him  change  his  horrible  position. 

To  marvel  at  this  comer,  brave  and  blunt. 

That  dares  Time's  irresistible  affront, 

Whose  strokes  have  scarred  even  the  gods  of  old ;  — 

Wliereas  this  seemed  a  mortal,  at  mere  hunt 

For  coneys,  lighted  by  the  moonshine  cold, 

Or  stalker  of  stray  deer,  stealthy  and  bold. 


THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES.  81 

Who,  turning  to  the  small  assembled  foys, 
Doffs  to  the  lily  queen  his  courteous  cap, 
And  holds  her  beauty  for  a  while  in  gaze, 
With  bright  eyes  kindling  at  this  pleasant  hap  ; 
And  thence  upon  the  fair  moon's  silver  map. 
As  if  in  question  of  this  magic  chance. 
Laid  like  a  dream  upon  the  green  earth's  lap  ; 
And  then  upon  old  Saturn  turns  askance, 
Exclaimmg,  ^yith  a  glad  and  kmdly  glance  :  — 

"0,  these  be  Fancy's  revellers  by  night ! 
Stealthy  companions  of  the  downy  moth  — 
Diana's  motes,  that  flit  in  her  pale  light, 
Shunners  of  sunbeams  in  diurnal  sloth  :  — 
These  be  the  feasters  on  night's  silver  cloth, — 
The  gnat  with  shrilly  trump  is  their  convener, 
Forth  from  their  flowery  chambers,  nothing  loth, 
With  lulling  tunes  to  charm  the  air  serener. 
Or  dance  upon  the  grass  to  make  it  greener. 

■  •  These  be  the  pretty  genii  of  the  flowers, 

Daintily  fed  with  honey  and  pure  dew  — 

Midsummer's  phantoms  in  her  dreaming  hours, 

King  Oberon.  and  all  his  merry  crew, 

The  darling  puppets  of  romance's  view  : 

Fairies,  and  sprites,  and  goblin  elves,  we  call  them, 

Famous  for  patronage  of  lovers  true  ;  — 

Xo  harm  they  act,  neither  shall  harm  befall  them. 

So  do  not  thus  with  crabbed  frowns  appall  them." 

0,  what  a  cry  was  Saturn's  then  !  —  it  made 

The  fairies  quake.     •'•  What  care  I  for  their  pranks, 

However  they  may  lovers  choose  to  aid. 

Or  dance  their  roundelays  on  flowery  banks  ?  — 


32  THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 

Long  must  thej  dance  before  they  earn  my  tlianlcs,- 
So  step  aside,  to  some  far  safer  spot, 
Whilst  with  my  hungry  scythe  I  mo^Y  their  ranks, 
And  leave  them  in  the  sun,  like  weeds,  to  rot, 
And  with  the  next  day's  sun  to  be  forgot." 

Anon,  he  raised  afresh  liis  weapon  keen ; 
But  still  the  gracious  Shade  disarmed  his  aim, 
Stepping  with  brave  alacrity  between, 
And  made  his  sere  arm  powerless  and  tame. 
His  be  perpetual  glory,  for  the  shame 
Of  hoary  Saturn  in  that  grand  defeat  !  — 
But  I  must  tell,  how  here  Titania  came 
With  all  her  kneeling  lieges,  to  entreat 
His  kindly  succor,  in  sad  tones,  but  sweet. 

Saying,  "  Thou  seest  a  wretched  queen  before  thee, 

The  fading  power  of  a  failing  land. 

Who  for  her  kingdom  kneeleth  to  implore  thee, 

Now  menaced  by  this  tyrant's  spoiling  hand ; 

No  one  but  thee  can  hopefully  withstand 

That  crooked  blade,  he  longeth  so  to  lift. 

I  pray  thee  blind  him  with  his  own  vile  sand, 

Which  only  times  all  ruins  by  its  drift. 

Or  prune  his  eagle  wings  that  are  so  swift. 

*'  Or  take  him  by  that  sole  and  grizzled  tuft. 
That  hangs  upon  his  bald  and  barren  crown  ; 
And  we  will  sing  to  see  him  so  rebuffed, 
And  lend  our  little  mights  to  pull  him  down, 
And  make  lu-ave  sport  of  his  malicious  frown, 
For  all  his  boastful  mockery  o'er  men. 
For  thou  wast  born,  I  know,  for  this  renown, 
By  my  most  magical  and  inward  ken. 
That  readeth  even  at  Fate's  forestalling  pen. 


THE   PLEA    OF   THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  33 

"  Nay,  by  the  golden  lustre  of  thine  eye, 
And  by  thy  brow's  most  fair  and  ample  span. 
Thought's  glorious  palace,  framed  for  fancies  high, 
And  by  thy  cheek  thus  passionately  wan, 
I  know  the  signs  of  an  immortal  man, — 
Nature's  chief  darling,  an  illustrious  mate, 
Destined  to  foil  old  Death's  oblivious  plan. 
And  shine  untarnished  by  the  fogs  of  Fate, 
Time's  famous  rival  till  the  final  date  ! 

"  0,  shield  us,  then,  from  this  usurping  Time, 
And  we  will  visit  thee  in  moonlight  dreams  ; 
And  teach  thee  tunes,  to  wed  unto  thy  rhyme. 
And  dance  about  thee  in  all  midnight  gleams. 
Giving  thee  glimpses  of  our  magic  schemes,  » 

Such  as  no  mortal's  eye  hath  ever  seen ; 
And,  for  thy  love  to  us  in  our  extremes, 
Will  ever  keep  thy  chaplet  fresh  and  green, 
Such  as  no  poet's  wreath  hath  ever  been  ! 

"  And  we  '11  distil  thee  aromatic  dews. 

To  charm  thy  sense,  when  there  shall  be  no  flowers : 

And  flavored  syrups  in  thy  drinks  infuse, 

And  teach  the  nightingale  to  haunt  thy  bowers, 

And  with  our  games  divert  thy  weariest  hours, 

With  all  that  elfin  wits  can  e'er  devise. 

And,  this  churl  dead,  there  '11  be  no  hasting  hours 

To  rob  thee  of  thy  joys,  as  now  joy  flies  :  "  — 

Here  she  was  stopped  by  Saturn's  furious  cries. 

Whom,  therefore,  the  kind  Shade  rebukes  anew, 
Saying,  "  Thou  haggard  Sin,  go  forth,  and  scoop 
Thy  hollow  coffin  in  some  cliurch-yard  yew. 
Or  make  the  autumnal  flowers  turn  pale,  and  droop 


34  THE   PLEA   OF   THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 

Or  fell  the  bearded  corn,  till  gleaners  stoop 
Under  fat  sheaves, —  or  blast  the  piny  grove  ;  — 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  harm  this  pretty  group, 
Whose  lives  are  not  so  frail  and  feebly  v^oye, 
But  leased  on  Nature's  loveliness  and  love. 

"  'T  is  these  that  free  the  small  entangled  fly, 
Caught  in  the  venomed  spider's  crafty  snare ;  — 
These  be  the  petty  surgeons  that  apply 
The  healing  balsams  to  the  wounded  hare, 
Bedded  in  bloody  fern,  no  creature's  care  !  — 
These  be  providers  for  the  orphan  brood. 
Whose  tender  mother  hath  been  slain  in  air. 
Quitting  with  gaping  bill  her  darlings'  food, 

Hard  by  the  verge  of  her  domestic  wood. 

• 

"  'T  is  these  befriend  the  timid  trembling  stag, 

When,  with  a  bursting  heart  beset  with  fears, 

He  feels  his  saving  speed  begin  to  flag ; 

For  then  they  quench  the  fatal  taint  with  tears, 

And  prompt  fresh  shifts  in  his  alarumed  ears, 

So  piteously  they  view  all  bloody  morts ; 

Or  if  the  gunner,  with  his  arm,  appears, 

Like  noisy  pyes  and  jays.  vnth.  harsh  reports, 

They  warn  the  wild  fowl  of  his  deadly  sports. 

'•'For  these  are  kindly  ministers  of  nature, 
To  soothe  all  covert  hurts  and  dumb  distress ; 
Pretty  they  be,  and  very  small  of  stature, — 
For  mercy  still  consorts  with  littleness ;  — 
Wlierefore  the  sum  of  good  is  still  the  less. 
And  mischief  grossest  in  this  world  of  wrong ;  — • 
So  do  these  charitable  dwarfs  redress 
The  ten-fold  ravages  of  giants  strong, 
To  whom  great  malice  and  great  might  belong. 


THE    TLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES.  3« 

"  Likewise  to  them  are  Poets  much  beholden 
For  secret  fovors  in  the  midnight  glooms ; 
Brave  Spenser  quaffed  out  of  their  goblets  golden, 
And  saw  their  tables  spread  of  prompt  mushrooms. 
And  heard  their  horns  of  honeysuckle  blooms 
Sounding  upon  the  air  most  soothing  soft, 
Like  humming  bees  busy  about  the  In-ooms.— 
And  glanced  this  fair  queen's  witchery  full  oft, 
And  in  her  magic  wain  soared  far  aloft. 

"  Nay,  I  myself,  though  mortal,  once  was  nursed 

By  fau-y  gossips,  friendly  at  my  birth, 

And  in  my  childish  ear  glib  Mab  rehearsed 

Her  breezy  travels  round  our  planet's  girth, 

Telling  me  wonders  of  the  moon  and  earth ;          ^ 

My  gramavye  at  her  grave  lap  I  conned, 

.Where  Puck  hath  been  convened  to  make  me  mirth ; 

I  have  had  from  Queen  Titania  tokens  fond, 

And  toyed  with  Oberon's  permitted  wand. 

••  With  figs  and  plums  and  Persian  dates  they  fed  me 
And  delicate  cates  after  my  sunset  meal, 
And  took  me  by  my  childish  hand,  and  led  me 
By  craggy  rocks  crested  with  keeps  of  steel, 
WTiose  awful  bases  deep  dark  woods  conceal. 
Staining  some  dead  lake  with  their  verdant  dyes  : 
And  when  the  West  sparkled  at  Phoebus"  wheel. 
With  fairy  euphrasy  they  purged  mine  eyes. 
To  let  me  see  their  cities  in  the  skies. 

'•  "T  was  they  first  schooled  my  young  imagination 
To  take  its  flights  like  any  new-fledged  bird, 
And  showed  the  span  of  winged  meditation 
Stretched  wider  than  things  grossly  seen  or  heard. 


36  THE    PLEA    OF   THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 

With  SAveet  swift  Aiiel  how  I  soared  and  stii-red 

The  fragrant  blooms  of  spiritual  bowers  ! 

'T  was  the  J  endeared  what  I  have  still  preferred, 

Nature" s  blest  attributes  and  balmy  powers, 

Her  hills  and  vales  and  brooks,  sweet  birds  and  flowers 

"  "Wherefore  with  all  time  loyalty  and  duty 

Will  I  regard  them  in  my  honoring  rhyme. 

With  love  for  love,  and  homages  to  Ijeauty, 

And  magic  thoughts  gathered  in  night's  cool  clime, 

With  studious  verse  trancing  the  dragon  Time, 

Strong  as  old  Merlin's  necromantic  spells  ; 

So  these  dear  monarchs  of  the  summer's  prime 

Shall  live  unstartled  by  his  di'eadful  yells, 

Till  shi-ill  larks  warn  them  to  their  flowery  cells." 

Look  how  a  poisoned  man  turns  livid  black, 
Drugged  with  a  cup  of  deadly  hellebore, 
That  sets  his  horrid  features  all  at  rack, — 
So  seemed  these  words  into  the  ear  to  pour 
Of  ghastly  Saturn,  answering  with  a  roar 
Of  mortal  pain  and  spite  and  utmost  rage, 
Wherewith  his  grisly  arm  he  raised  once  more, 
And  bade  the  clustered  sinews  all  engacre, 
As  if  at  one  fell  stroke  to  wreck  an  age. 

Whereas  the  blade  flashed  on  the  dinted  ground, 
Down  through  his  steadfast  foe.  yet  made  no  scai 
On  that  immortal  Shade,  or  death-like  wound  ; 
But  Time  was  long  benumbed,  and  stood  ajar, 
And  then  ^rith  bafiied  racre  took  fliorht  afar. 
To  weep  his  hurt  in  some  Cimmerian  gloom. 
Or  meaner  fames  (like  mine)  to  mock  and  mar, 
Or  sharp  his  scythe  for  royal  strokes  of  doom, 
Whetting  its  edo-e  on  some  old  Caesar's  tomb. 


THE    PLEA    OP    THE    MIDSUMMER   FAIRIES. 


37 


Ilowbeit  he  vanished  in  the  forest  shade, 
Distantly  heard  as  if  some  grumbling  pard, 
And,  like  Narcissus,  to  a  sound  decayed ;  — 
Meanwhile  the  fays  clustered  the  gracious  Bard, 
The  darling  centre  of  their  dear  regard : 
Besides  of  sundry  dances  on  the  green, 
Never  was  mortal  man  so  brightly  starred. 
Or  won  such  pretty  homages,  I  ween. 
"  Nod  to  him,  "Elves  !  "  cries  the  melodious  queen. 

"  Nod  to  him.  Elves,  and  flutter  round  about  him, 
And  quite  enclose  him  with  your  pretty  crowd, 
x\.nd  touch  him  lovingly,  for  that,  without  him. 
The  silk-worm  now  had  spun  our  dreary  shroud ;  — 
But  he  hath  all  dispersed  death's  tearful  cloud, 
And  Time's  dread  effigy  scared  quite  away : 
Bow  to  him,  then,  as  though  to  me  ye  bowed, 
And  his  dear  wishes  prosper  and  obey 
Wherever  love  and  wit  can  find  a  way  ! 

"  'Noint  him  with  fairy  dews  of  magic  savors, 
Shaken  from  orient  buds  still  pearly  wet, 
Roses  and  spicy  pinks, —  and,  of  all  favors, 
Plant  in  his  walks  the  purple  violet. 
And  meadow-sweet  under  the  hedges  set, 
To  mingle  breaths  with  dainty  eglantine 
And  honeysuckles  sweet, —  nor  yet  forget 
Some  pastoral  flowery  chaplets  to  entwine, 
To  vie  the  thoughts  about  his  brow  benign 

"  Let  no  wild  things  astonish  him  or  fear  him, 
But  tell  them  all  how  mild  he  is  of  heart, 
Till  e'en  the  timid  hares  go  frankly  near  him, 
And  eke  the  dappled  does,  yet  never  start ; 


38  THE    PLEA    OF    THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 

Nor  shall  tlieir  fawns  into  the  thickets  dart, 

Nor  wrens  forsake  their  nests  among  the  leaves, 

Nor  speckled  thrushes  flutter  far  apart ;  — 

But  bid  the  sacred  swallow  haunt  his  eaves, 

To  guard  his  roof  from  lightning  and  from  thieves. 

"  Or  when  he  goes  the  nimble  squirrel's  visitor, 
Let  the  brown  hermit  bring  his  hoarded  nuts, 
For,  tell  him,  this  is  Nature's  kind  Inquisitor. — 
Though  man  keeps  cautious  doors  that  conscience  shuts 
For  conscious  wrong  all  curious  quest  rebuts, — 
Nor  yet  shall  bees  uncase  their  jealous  stings, 
HoAvever  he  may  watch  their  straw-built  huts ;  — 
So  let  him  learn  the  crafts  of  all  small  things. 
Which  he  will  hint  most  aptly  when  he  sings." 

Here  she  leaves  off,  and  with  a  graceful  hand 
Waves  thrice  three  splendid  circles  round  his  head ; 
Which,  though  deserted  by  the  radiant  wand, 
Wears  still  the  glory  which  her  waving  shed, 
Such 'as  erst  crowned  the  old  Apostle's  head  ; 
To  show  the  thoughts  there  harbored  were  divine. 
And  on  immortal  contemplations  fed  :  — 
Goodly  it  was  to  see  that  glory  shine 
Around  a  brow  so  lofty  and  benign  !  — 

Goodly  it  was  to  see  the  elfin  brood 
Contend  for  kisses  of  his  gentle  hand. 
That  had  their  mortal  enemy  withstood, 
And  stayed  their  lives,  fast  ebbing  with  the  sand. 
Long  while  this  strife  engaged  the  pretty  band  j 
But  now  bold  Chanticleer,  from  farm  to  farm, 
Challenged  the  dawn  creeping  o'er  eastern  land, 
And  well  the  fairies  knew  that  shrill  alarm. 
Which  sounds  the  knell  of  every  elfish  charm. 


THE  PLEA   OF  THE   MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  39 

And  soon  the  rolling  mist,  that  'gan  arise 
From  plashy  mead  and  undiscovered  stream, 
Earth's  morning  incense  to  the  early  skies, 
Crept  o'er  the  failing  landscape  of  my  dream. 
Soon  faded  then  the  Phantom  of  my  theme  — 
A  shapeless  shade,  that  fancy  disavowed, 
And  shrank  to  nothing  in  the  mist  extreme. 
Then  flew  Titania,—  and  her  little  crowd, 
Like  flocking  linuets,  vanished  in  a  cloud. 


TO    S.   T.   COLERIDGE. 

It  is  not  with  a  hope  mj  feeble  praise 

Can  add  one  moment's  honor  to  thy  own, 

That  with  thy  mighty  name  I  grace  these  lays ; 

I  seek  to  glorify  myself  alone  : 

For  that  some  precious  favor  thou  hast  shown 

To  my  endeavor  in  a  bygone  time, 

And  by  this  token  I  would  have  it  known 

Thou  art  my  friend,  and  friendly  to  my  rhyme! 

It  is  my  dear  ambition  now  to  climb 

Still  higher  in  thy  thought, —  if  my  bold  pen 

May  thrust  on  contemplations  more  sublime.  — 

But  I  am  thirsty  for  thy  praise,  for  when 

We  gain  applauses  from  the  great  in  name, 

We  seem  to  be  partakers  of  their  fame. 


HERO    AND    LEANDER. 


0  Bards  of  old  !   what  sorrows  have  ye  sung, 
And  tragic  stories,  chronicled  in  stone, — 
Sad  Philomel  restored  her  ra^^shed  tongue, 
And  transformed  Niobe  in  dumbness  shown ; 
Sweet  Sappho  on  her  love  forever  calls. 
And  Hero  on  the  drowned  Leander  falls  ! 

Was  it  that  spectacles  of  sadder  plights 
Should  make  our  blisses  rehsh  the  more  high? 
Then  all  fair  dames,  and  maidens,  and  true  knigbis, 
Whose  flourished  fortunes  prosper  in  Love's  eye, 
Weep  here,  unto  a  tale  of  ancient  grief. 
Traced  from  the  course  of  an  old  bas-relief. 

There  stands  Abydos  !  —here  is  Sestos'  steep, 
Hard  by  the  gusty  margin  of  the  sea, 
Where  sprinkling  waves  continually  do  leap ; 
And  that  is  where  those  famous  lovers  be, 
A  builded  gloom  shot  up  into  the  gray, 
As  if  the  fii'st  tall  watch-tower  of  the  day. 

Lo  !  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone  ! 
Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky. 
His  voice  is  heard,  though  body  there  is  none, 
And  rain-like  music  scatters  from  on  high ; 
But  Love  would  follow  with  a  falcon  spite, 
To  pluck  the  minstrel  from  his  dewy  height. 


44  HERO    AND   LEANDER. 

For  Love  hath  framed  a  ditty  of  regrets, 
Tuned  to  the  hollow  sobbings  on  the  shore, 
A  vexing  sense,  that  with  like  music  frets, 
And  chimes  this  dismal  burthen  o'er  and  o'er 
Saying,  Leander's  joys  are  past  and  spent. 
Like  stars  extinguished  in  the  firmament. 

For  ere  the  golden  crevices  of  morn 

Let  in  those  regal  luxuries  of  light. 

Which  all  the  variable  east  adorn, 

And  hang  rich  fringes  on  the  skirts  of  night, 

Leander,  weaning  from  sweet  Hero's  side. 

Must  leave  a  widow  where  he  found  a  bride. 

Hark  !  how  the  billows  beat  upon  the  sand  ! 
Like  pawing  steeds  impatient  of  delay ; 
Meanwhile  their  rider,  lingering  on  the  land. 
Dallies  with  Love,  and  holds  farewell  at  bay 
A  too  short  span. —  How  tedious  slow  is  grief! 
But  parting  renders  time  both  sad  and  brief 

"  Alas  !    (he  sighed)  that  this  first  glimpsing  light, 
Which  makes  the  wide  world  tenderly  appear, 
•  Should  be  the  burning  signal  for  my  flight, 
From  all  the  Avorld's  best  image,  which  is  here ; 
Whose  very  shadoAv,  in  my  fond  compare. 
Shines  far  more  bright  than  Beauty's  self  elsewhere. 

Their  cheeks  are  white  as  blossoms  of  the  dark, 
Whose  leaves  close  up  and  show  the  outward  pale, 
And  those  fair  mirrors  where  their  joys  did  spark. 
All  dim  and  tarnished  with  a  dreary  veil. 
No  more  to  kindle  till  the  night's  return. 
Like  stars  replenished  at  Joy's  golden  urn. 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  45 

Even  thus  they  creep  into  the  spectral  gray, 
That  cramps  the  landscape  in  its  narrow  brim, 
As  when  two  shadows  by  old  Lethe  stray, 
He  clasping  her  and  she  entwining  him ; 
Like  trees  wind-parted  that  embrace  anon. 
True  love  so  often  goes  before  'tis  gone. 

For  what  rich  merchant  but  will  pause  in  fear, 
To  trust  his  wealth  to  the  unsafe  abyss  7 
So  Hero  dotes  upon  her  treasure  here, 
And  sums  the  loss  with  many  an  anxious  kiss, 
Whilst  her  fond  eyes  grow  dizzy  in  her  head, 
Fear  agsravatino;  fear  with  shows  of  di'ead. 


CO* 


She  thinks  how  many  have  been  sunk  and  drowned, 
And  spies  their  snow-white  bones  below  the  deep, 
Then  calls  huge  congregated  monsters  round, 
And  plants  a  rock  wherever  he  would  leap ; 
Anon  she  dwells  on  a  fantastic  dream, 
Which  she  interprets  of  that  fatal  stream. 

Saying,  "  That  honeyed  fly  I  saw  was  thee, 
Which  lighted  on  a  water-lily's  cup, 
When,  lo  !  the  flower,  enamored  of  my  bee. 
Closed  on  him  suddenly  and  locked  him  up. 
And  he  was  smothered  in  her  drenching  dew ; 
Therefore  this  day  thy  drowning  I  shall  rue." 

But  next,  remembering  her  virgin  flime, 

She  clips  him  in  her  arms  and  bids  him  go, 

But  seeing  him  break  loose  repents  her  shame, 

And  plucks  him  back  upon  her  bosom's  snow; 

And  tears  unfix  her  iced  resolve  again, 

Aa  steadfast  frosts  are  thawed  by  showers  of  rain. 


46  HERO    AND    LEAXDER. 

0  for  a  type  of  parting  !  —  Love  to  love 
Is  like  the  fond  attraction  of  two  spheres, 
AYhich  needs  a  godlike  effort  to  remove, 
And  then  sink  down  their  sunny  atmospheres 
In  rain  and  darkness  on  each  ruined  heart, 
Kor  yet  their  melodies  will  sound  apart. 

So  brave  Leander  sunders  from  his  bride  ; 

The  wrenching  pang  disparts  his  soul  in  twain , 

Half  stays  with  her,  half  goes  towards  the  tide, — 

And  life  must  ache  until  they  join  again. 

Now  wouldst  thou  know  the  wideness  of  the  wound. 

Mete  every  step  he  takes  upon  the  ground. 

And  for  the  agony  and  bosom-throe, 

Let  it  be  measured  by  the  wide  vast  air, 

For  that  is  infinite,  and  so  is  woe, 

Since  parted  lovers  breathe  it  everywhere. 

Look  how  it  heaves  Leander" s  laboring  chest, 

Panting,  at  poise,  upon  a  rocky  crest ! 

From  which  he  leaps  into  the  scooping  brine, 
That  shocks  his  bosom  with  a  double  chill ; 
Because,  all  hours,  till  the  slow  sun's  decline, 
That  cold  divorcer  will  betwixt  them  still  ; 
Wherefore  he  likens  it  to  Styx"  foul  tide, 
Where  life  grows  death  upon  the  other  side. 

Then  sadly  he  confronts  his  two-fold  toil 
Against  rude  waves  and  an  unwilling  mind. 
Wishing,  alas  !  with  the  stout  rower's  toil, 
That  like  a  rower  he  might  gaze  behind, 
And  watch  that  lonely  statue  he  hath  left 
On  her  bleak  summit,  weeping  and  bereft  ! 


HERO    AND   LEANDER. 


47 


Yet  turning  oft,  he  sees  her  troubled  locks 
Pursue  him  still  the  furthest  that  they  may ; 
Her  marble  arms  that  overstretch  the  rocks, 
And  her  pale  passioned  hands  that  seem  to  pray 
In  dumb  petition  to  the  gods  above  : 
Love  prays  devoutly  when  it  prays  for  love  ! 

Then  with  deep  sighs  he  blows  away  the  wave, 
That  hangs  superfluous  tears  upon  his  cheek, 
And  bans  his  labor  like  a  hopeless  slave. 
That,  chained  in  hostile  galley,  faint  and  weak, 
Plies  on  despairing  through  the  restless  foam, 
Thoughtful  of  his  lost  love,  and  far-off  home. 

The  di-owsy  mist  before  him  chill  and  dank, 

Like  a  dull  lethargy  o'erleans  the  sea. 

When  he  rows  on  against  the  utter  blank, 

Steering  as  if  to  dim  eternity, — 

Like  Love's  frail  ghost  departing  with  the  dawn ; 

A  faihng  shadow  in  the  twilight  drawn. 

And  soon  is  gone, —  or  nothing  but  a  faint 
And  failing  image  in  the  eye  of  thought ; 
That  mocks  his  model  with  an  after-paint, 
And  stains  an  atom  like  the  shape  she  sought ; 
Then  with  her  earnest  vows  she  hopes  to  fee 
The  old  and  hoary  majesty  of  sea. 

"  0  King  of  waves,  and  brother  of  high  Jove, 
Preserve  my  sumless  venture  there  afloat ; 
A  woman's  heart,  and  its  whole  wealth  of  love, 
Are  all  embarked  upon  that  little  boat ; 
Nay,  but  two  loves,  two  lives,  a  double  fate 
A  perilous  voyage  for  so  dear  a  freight. 


48  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

"If  impious  mariners  be  stained  with  crime, 
Shake  not  in  awful  rage  thy  hoary  locks ; 
Lay  by  thy  storms  until  another  time, 
Lest  my  frail  bark  be  dashed  against  the  rocks  : 
Or  rather  smoothe  thy  deeps  that  he  may  fly 
Like  Love  himself,  upon  a  seeming  sky  ! 

"Let  all  thy  herded  monsters  sleep  beneath. 

Nor  gore  him  with  crooked  tusks,  or  wreathed  horns ; 

Let  no  fierce  sharks  destroy  him  with  their  teeth, 

Nor  spine-fish  wound  him  with  their  venomed  thorns 

But  if  he  faint,  and  timely  succor  lack. 

Let  ruthful  dolphins  rest  him  on  their  back. 

"  Let  no  false  dimpling  whii-lpools  suck  him  in. 
Nor  slimy  quicksands  smother  his  sweet  breath  ; 
Let  no  jagged  corals  tear  his  tender  skin. 
Nor  mountain  billows  bury  him  in  death ;  " — 
And  with  that  thought  forestalling  her  own  fears, 
She  drowned  his  painted  image  in  her  tears. 

By  this,  the  climbing  sun,  with  rest  repaired 
Looked  through  the  gold  embrasures  of  the  sky. 
And  asked  the  drowsy  world  how  she  had  fared  ;  — 
The  drowsy  world  shone  brightened  in  reply ; 
And  smiling  off  her  fogs,  his  slanting  beam 
Spied  young  Leander  in  the  middle  stream. 

His  face  was  pallid,  but  the  hectic  morn 
Had  hung  a  lying  crimson  on  his  cheeks. 
And  slanderous  sparkles  in  his  eyes  forlorn ; 
So  death  lies  ambushed  in  consumptive  streaks ; 
But  inward  grief  was  writhing  o'er  its  task, 
As  heart-sick  jesters  weep  behind  the  mask. 


HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  lost  delight, 
Her  last  embracings,  and  the  space  between ; 
He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  future  night, 
Her  speechless  rapture  and  enamored  mien. 
When,  lo  !  before  him,  scarce  two  galleys'  space, 
His  thoughts  confronted  with  another  flxce ! 

Her  aspect 's  like  a  moon  divinelj  fliir. 
But  makes  the  midnight  darker  that  it  Kes  on ; 
"T  is  so  beclouded  with  her  coal-black  hair 
That  densely  skirts  her  luminous  horizon, 
Making  her  doubly  fair,  thus  darkly  set. 
As  marble  lies  advantaged  upon  jet. 

She 's  all  too  bright,  too  argent,  and  too  pale, 

To  be  a  woman  ;  —  but  a  woman's  double, 

Reflected  on  the  wave  so  faint  and  frail, 

She  tops  the  billows  like  an  air-blown  bubble ; 

Or  dim  creation  of  a  mornino-  dream, 

Fair  as  the  wave-bleached  lily  of  the  stream. 

The  very  rumor  strikes  his  seeing  dead  : 

Great  beauty  like  great  fear  first  stuns  the  sense : 

He  knows  not  if  her  lips  be  blue  or  red, 

Nor  of  her  eyes  can  give  true  evidence  : 

Like  murder's  witness  swooning  in  the  court, 

His  sight  falls  senseless  by  its  own  report. 

Anon  resuming,  it  declares  her  eyes 
Ai'e  tinct  with  azure,  like  two  crystal  wells 
That  drink  the  blue  complexion  of  the  skies. 
Or  pearls  out-peeping  from  their  silvery  shells : 
Her  pohshed  brow,  it  is  an  ample  plain. 
To  lodge  vast  contemplations  of  the  main. 
5 


49 


50  HERO    AND    LEAXDER. 

Her  lips  might  corals  seem,  but  corals  near, 
Stray  through  her  hah'  like  blossoms  on  a  bower ; 
And  o'er  the  weaker  red  still  domineer, 
And  make  it  pale  by  tribute  to  more  power ; 
Her  rounded  cheeks  are  of  still  paler  hue. 
Touched  by  the  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue. 

Thus  he  beholds  her  rocking  on  the  water, 
Under  the  glossy  umbrage  of  her  hair, 
Like  pearly  Amphitrite's  fairest  daughter, 
Naiad,  or  Nereid,  or  Siren  fair, 
Mislodging  music  in  her  pitiless  breast, 
A  nightingale  within  a  falcon's  nest. 

They  say  there  be  such  maidens  in  the  deep, 
Charming  poor  mariners,  that  all  too  near 
By  mortal  lullabies  fall  dead  asleep, 
As  drowsy  men  are  poisoned  through  the  ear  ; 
Therefore  Leander's  fears  begin  to  urge, 
This  snowy  swan  is  come  to  sing  his  du'ge. 

At  which  he  falls  into  a  deadly  chill. 
And  strains  his  eyes  upon  her  lips  apart : 
Fearing  each  breath  to  feel  that  prelude  shrill, 
Pierce  through  his  marrow,  like  a  breath-blown  dart 
Shot  sudden  from  an  Indian's  hollow  cane, 
With  mortal  venom  fraught,  and  fiery  pain. 

Here,  then,  poor  wretch,  how  he  begins  to  crowd 
A  thousand  thoughts  Avithin  a  pulse's  space ; 
There  seemed  so  brief  a  pause  of  life  allowed, 
His  mind  stretched  universal,  to  embrace 
The  whole  wide  world,  in  an  extreme  farewell    - 
A  moment's  musino;  —  but  an  age  to  tell. 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  51 

For  there  stood  Hero,  widowed  at  a  glance, 

The  foreseen  sum  of  many  a  tedious  fact, 

Pale  cheeks,  dim  eyes,  and  withered  countenance, 

A  Avasted  ruin  that  no  wasting  lacked ; 

Time's  tragic  consequents  ere  time  began, 

A  world  of  sorrow  in  a  tear-drop's  span. 

A  moment's  thinking  is  an  hour  in  words, — 
An  hour  of  words  is  little  for  some  woes ; 
Too  little  breathing  a  long  life  affords, 
For  love  to  paint  itself  by  perfect  shows ; 
Then  let  his  love  and  grief  unwronged  He  dumb, 
Whilst  Fear,  and  that  it  fears,  together  come. 

As  when  the  crew,  hard  by  some  jutty  cape, 
Struck  pale  and  panicked  by  the  billows'  roar, 
Lay  by  all  timely  measures  of  escape. 
And  let  their  bark  go  driving  on  the  shore ; 
So  frayed  Leander,  drifting  to  hfs  wreck. 
Gazing  on  Scylla,  falls  upon  her  neck. 

For  he  hath  all  forgot  the  swimmer's  art. 
The  rower's  cunning,  and  the  pilot's  skill, 
Letting  his  arms  fall  down  in  languid  part, 
Swayed  by  the  waves,  and  nothing  by  his  will, 
Till  soon  he  jars  against  that  glossy  skin, 
Solid  like  glass,  though  seemingly  as  thin. 

Lo  !  how  she  startles  at  the  warning  shock 
And  straightway  girds  him  to  her  radiant  breast, 
More  like  his  safe  smooth  harbor  than  his  rock ; 
Poor  wretch,  he  is  so  faint  and  toil-opprest. 
He  cannot  loose  him  from  his  grappling  foe, 
Whether  for  love  or  hate,  she  lets  not  go. 


52  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

His  eyes  are  blinded  with  the  sleety  brine, 

His  ears  are  deafened  -vrith  the  wiMering  noise ; 

He  asks  the  purpose  of  her  fell  design. 

But  foamy  waves  choke  up  his  struggling  voice ; 

Under  the  ponderous  sea  his  body  dips, 

And  Hero's  name  dies  bubbling  on  his  lips. 

Look  how  a  man  is  lowered  to  his  grave ; 
A  yearning  hollow  in  the  green  earth's  lap ; 
So  he  is  sunk  into  the  yawning  wave, 
The  plunging  sea  fills  up  the  watery  gap  ; 
Anon  he  is  all  gone,  and  nothing  seen, 
,  But  likeness  of  green  turf  and  hillocks  green. 

And  where  he  swam  the  constant  sun  lies  sleeping, 
Over  the  verdant  plain  that  makes  his  bed  ; 
And  all  the  noisy  waves  go  freshly  leaping, 
Like  gamesome  boys  over  the  church-yard  dead ; 
The  light  in  vain  keeps  looking  for  his  face, 
Now  screaming  sea-fowl  settle  in  his  place. 

Yet  weep  and  watch  for  him,  though  all  in  vain  ! 
Ye  moaning  billows,  seek  him  as  ye  wander  ! 
Ye  gazing  sunbeams,  look  for  him  again  ! 
Ye  winds,  grow  hoarse  with  asking  for  Leander ! 
Ye  did  but  spare  him  for  more  cruel  rape, 
Sea-storm  and  ruin  in  a  female  shape  ! 

She  says  "t  is  love  hath  bribed  her  to  this  deed, 
The  glancing  of  his  eyes  did  so  bewitch  her. 
0  bootless  theft !  unprofitable  meed  ! 
Love's  treasury  is  sacked,  but  she  no  richer  ; 
The  sparkles  of  his  eyes  are  cold  and  dead. 
And  all  his  golden  looks  are  turned  to  lead ! 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  53 

She  holds  the  casket,  but  her  simple  hand 
Hath  spilled  its  dearest  jewel  by  the  way ; 
She  hath  life's  empty  garment  at  command, 
But  her  own  death  lies  covert  in  the  prey  ; 
As  if  a  thief  should  steal  a  tainted  vest, 
Some  dead  man's  spoil,  and  sicken  of  his  pest. 

Now  she  compels  him  to  her  deeps  below. 

Hiding  his  face  beneath  her  plenteous  hair, 

^Yhich.  jealously  she  shakes  all  round  her  brow. 

For  di-ead  of  envy,  though  no  eyes  are  there 

But  seals',  and  all  brute  tenants  of  the  deep. 

Which  heedless  through  the  wave  their  journeys  keep, 

Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 

She  bore  him,  murmuring  with  joyous  haste 

In  too  rash  ignorance,  as  he  had  been 

Born  to  the  texture  of  that  watery  waste ; 

That  which  she  breathed  and  sighed,  the  emerald  wave, 

How  could  her  pleasant  home  become  his  grave  ! 

Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 
She  bore  her  treasure,  with  a  face  too  nigh 
To  mark  how  life  was  altered  in  its  mien, 
Or  how  the  light  grew  torpid  in  his  eye. 
Or  how  his  pearly  breath,  unprisoned  there, 
Flew  up  to  join  the  universal  air. 

She  could  not  miss  the  throbbings  of  his  heart, 
Whilst  her  own  pulse  so  wantoned  in  its  joy ; 
She  could  not  guess  he  straggled  to  depart, 
And  when  he  strove  no  more,  the  hapless  boy  ! 
She  read  his  mortal  stillness  for  content. 
Feeling  no  fear  where  only  love  was  meant. 
5* 


54  HEEO    AND    LEAXDER 

Soon  she  alights  upon  her  ocean-floor, 

And  straight  unjokes  her  arms  from  her  fan*  prize ; 

Then  on  his  lovely  face  begins  to  pore, 

As  if  to  glut  her  soul ;  —  her  hungry  ejes 

Have  grown  so  jealous  of  her  arms"  delight : 

It  seems,  she  hath  no  other  sense  but  sit)-ht. 

But,  0,  sad  marvel  !   0,  most  bitter  strange  ! 
What  dismal  magic  makes  his  cheek  so  pale  ] 
Why  will  he  not  embrace, —  why  not  exchange 
Her  kindly  kisses  ;  —  wherefore  not  exhale 
Some  odorous  message  from  life's  ruby  gates, 
Where  she  his  first  sweet  embassy  awaits] 

Her  eyes,  poor  watchers,  fixed  upon  his  looks, 
Are  grappled  with  a  wonder  near  to  grief. 
As  one,  who  pores  on  undeciphered  books. 
Strains  vain  surmise,  and  dodges  with  belief; 
So  she  keeps  gazing  with  a  mazy  thought, 
Framing  a  thousand  doubts  that  end  in  naught. 

Too  stern  inscription  for  a  page  so  young, 
The  dark  translation  of  his  look  was  death  ! 
But  death  was  written  in  an  alien  tono-ue, 
And  learning  was  not  by  to  give  it  breath ; 
So  one  deep  woe  sleeps  bui-ied  in  its  seal, 
Which  Time,  untimely,  hasteth  to  reveal. 

Meanwhile  she  sits  unconscious  of  her  hap, 
Nursing  Death's  marble  effigy,  which  there 
With  heavy  head  lies  pillowed  in  her  lap, 
And  elbows  all  unhinged ;  —  his  sleeking  hair 
Creeps  o'er  her  knees,  and  settles  where  his  hand 
Leans  with  lax  fingers  crooked  against  the  sand ; 


HERO    AND    LEAXDER. 


55 


And  there  lies  spread  in  many  an  oozy  trail, 
Like  glossy  weals  hung  from  a  chalky  base, 
That  shows  no  whiter  than  his  brow  is  pale ; 
So  soon  the  wintry  death  had  bleached  his  face 
Into  cold  marble; —  with  blue  chilly  shades, 
Showing  wherein  the  freezy  bloot^l  pervades. 

And  o'er  his  steadfast  cheek  a  furrowed  pain 
Hath  set,  and  stiffened  like  a  storm  in  ice, 
Showing  by  drooping  lines  the  deadly  strain 
Of  mortal  anguish  :  — yet  you  might  gaze  twice 
Ere  Death  it  seemed,  and  not  his  cousin.  Sleep, 
That  through  those  creviced  lids  did  underpeep. 

But  all  that  tender  bloom  about  his  eyes, 

Is  Death's  own  ^•iolets,  which  his  utmost  rite 

It  is  to  scatter  when  the  red  rose  dies ; 

For  blue  is  chilly,  and  akin  to  white  : 

Also  he  leaves  some  tinges  on  his  lips, 

Which  he  hath  kissed  with  such  cold  fi'osty  nips. 

"  Surely,"  quoth  she,  "'he  sleeps,  the  senseless  things 
Oppressed  and  faint  with  toiling  in  the  stream  I  " 
Therefore  she  will  not  mar  his  rest,  but  sing 
So  low,  her  tune  shall  mingle  with  his  dream ; 
Meanwhile,  her  lily  fingers  tasks  to  twine 
His  uncrispt  locks  uncurling  in  the  brine. 

"  0  lovely  boy  ! "'  — thus  she  attuned  her  voice, — 
'•"Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  a  sea-maid's  home. 
My  love-mate  thou  shalt  be.  and  true  heart's  choice ; 
How  have  I  longed  such  a  twin-self  should  come, — 
A  lonely  thing,  till  this  sweet  chance  befell, 
My  heart  kept  sighing  like  a  hollow  shell. 


56  HERO    AND    LEAIS^DER. 

' '  Here  thou  shalt  live  beneath  this  secret  dome, 

An  ocean-bower ;  defended  bj  the  shade 

Of  quiet  waters,  a  cool  emerald  gloom 

To  lap  thee  all  about.     Nay,  be  not  frayed. 

Those  are  but  shady  fishes  that  sail  by 

Like  antic  clouds  across  my  liquid  sky ! 

'  •  Look  how  the  sunbeam  burns  upon  their  scales, 
And  shows  rich  glimpses  of  their  Tyrian  skins  ; 
They  flash  small  lightnings  from  their  vigorous  tails, 
And  winking  stars  are  kindled  at  their  fins  : 
These  shall  divert  thee  in  thy  weariest  mood, 
And  seek  thy  hand  for  gamesomeness  and  food. 

"Lo  !  those  green  pretty  leaves  with  tassel  bells, 
My  flowerets  those,  that  never  pine  for  drowth ; 
Myself  did  plant  them  in  the  dappled  shells, 
That  di-ink  the  wave  with  such  a  rosy  mouth, — 
Pearls  wouldst  thou  have  beside  ?  crystals  to  shine  1 
I  had  such  treasures  once, —  now  they  are  thine. 

"  Now,  lay  thine  ear  against  this  golden  sand, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  the  music  of  the  sea. 
Those  hollow  tunes  it  plays  against  the  land, — 
Is  "t  not  a  rich  and  wondrous  melody  ? 
I  have  lain  hours,  and  fancied  in  its  tone 
I  heard  the  languages  of  ages  gone  ! 

"  I  too  can  sing  when  it  shall  please  thy  choice, 
And  breathe  soft  tunes  through  a  melodious  shell. 
Though  heretofore  I  have  but  set  my  voice 
To  some  long  sighs,  grief  harmonized,  to  tell 
How  desolate  I  fared ;  —  but  this  sweet  change 
Will  add  new  notes  of  gladness  to  my  range  ! 


HERO    AND   LEANDER. 

"  Or  bid  me  speak,  and  I  will  tell  thee  tales, 
Which  I  have  framed  out  of  the  noise  of  waves ; 
Ere  now,  I  have  communed  with  senseless  gales, 
And  held  vain  colloquies  with  barren  caves ; 
But  I  could  talk  to  thee  whole  days  and  days. 
Only  to  word  my  love  a  thousand  ways. 

"  But  if  thy  lips  will  bless  me  with  their  speech, 
Then  ope,  sweet  oracles  !  and  I  "11  be  mute  ; 
I  was  born  ignorant  for  thee  to  teach, 
Nay,  all  love's  lore  to  thy  dear  looks  impute  ; 
Then  ope  thine  eyes,  fair  teachere,  by  whose  light 
I  saw  to  give  away  my  heart  aright !  " 

But  cold  and  deaf  the  sullen  creature  lies. 
Over  her  knees,  and  with  concealing  clay 
Like  hoarding  Ararice  locks  up  his  eyes. 
And  leaves  her  world  impoverished  of  day  ; 
Then  at  his  cruel  lips  she  bends  to  plead. 
But  there  the  door  is  closed  against  her  need. 

Surely  he  sleeps. —  so  her  false  wits  infer  ! 
Alas  !  poor  sluggard,  ne'er  to  wake  again  ! 
Surely  he  sleeps,  yet  without  any  stir 
That  might  denote  a  vision  in  his  brain  ; 
Or  if  he  does  not  sleep,  he  feigns  too  long. 
Twice  she  hath  reached  the  ending  of  her  song. 

Therefore,  't  is  time  she  tells  him  to  uncover 
Those  radiant  jesters,  and  disperse  her  fears. 
Whereby  her  April  face  is  shaded  over. 
Like  rainy  clouds  just  ripe  for  showering  tears  ; 
Nay,  if  he  will  not  wake,  so  poor  she  gets, 
Herself  must  rob  those  locked  up  cabmets. 


67 


68  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

With  that  she  stoops  above  his  brow,  and  bids 
Her  busj  hands  forsake  his  tangled  haii^, 
And  tenderly  lift  up  those  coffer-lids, 
That  she  may  gaze  upon  the  jewels  there, 
Like  babes  that  pluck  an  early  bud  apart, 
To  know  the  dainty  color  of  its  heart. 

Now,  picture  one,  soft  creeping  to  a  bed, 
Who  slowly  parts  the  fringe-hung  canopies, 
And  then  starts  back  to  find  the  sleeper  dead ; 
So  she  looks  in  on  his  uncovered  eyes, 
And  seeing  all  within  so  drear  and  dark, 
Her  own  bright  soul  dies  in  her  like  a  spark. 

Backward  she  falls,  like  a  pale  prophetess, 
Under  the  swoon  of  holy  divination  : 
And  what  had  all  surpassed  her  simple  guess. 
She  now  resolves  in  this  dark  revelation  ; 
Death's  very  mystery, —  oblivious  death  ;  — 
Long  sleep,—  deep  night,  and  an  entranced  breath. 

Yet  life,  though  wounded  sore,  not  wholly  slam. 
Merely  obscured,  and  not  extinguished,  lies ; 
Her  breath  that  stood  at  ebb,  soon  flows  ao-ain 
Heaving  her  hollow  breast  with  heavy  sighs. 
And  light  comes  in  and  kindles  up  the  gloom, 
To  light  her  spirit  from  its  transient  tomb. 

Then  like  the  sun,  awakened  at  new  dawn. 
With  pale  bewildered  face  she  peers  about, 
And  spies  blurred  images  obscurely  drawn. 
Uncertain  shadows  in  a  haze  of  doubt ; 
But  her  true  grief  grows  shapely  by  degrees, 
A  perished  creature  lying  on  her  knees. 


HERO   AND   LEANDER. 

And  now  she  knows  how  that  old  Murther  preys, 
Whose  quarry  on  her  lap  lies  newly  slain : 
How  he  roams  all  abroad  and  grimly  slays, 
Like  a  lean  tiger  in  Love's  own  domain ; 
Parting  fond  mates, —  and  oft  in  flowery  lawns 
Bereaves  mild  mothers  of  their  milky  fawns. 

0,  too  dear  knowledge  !     0,  pernicious  earning  ! 
Foul  curse  engraven  upon  beauty's  page  ! 
Even  now  the  sorrow  of  that  deadly  learning 
Ploughs  up  her  brow,  like  an  untimely  age. 
And  on  her  cheek  stamps  verdict  of  death's  truth 
By  canker  blights  upon  the  bud  of  youth  ! 

For  as  unwholesome  winds  decay  the  leaf, 
So  her  cheeks'  rose  is  perished  by  her  sighs, 
And  withers  in  the  sickly  breath  of  grief; 
Whilst  unacquainted  rheum  bedims  her  eyes, 
Tears,  vu-gin  tears,  the  first  that  ever  leapt 
From  those  young  lids,  now  plentifully  wept. 

Whence  being  shed,  the  liquid  crystalline 
Drops  straightway  down,  refusing  to  partake 
In  gross  admixture  with  the  baser  brine. 
But  shrinks  and  hardens  into  pearls  opaque, 
Hereafter  to  be  worn  on  arms  and  ears ; 
So  one  maid's  trophy  is  another's  tears ! 

0,  foul  Arch-Shadow,  thou  old  cloud  of  Night, 
(Thus  in  her  frenzy  she  began  to  wail,) 
Thou  blank  oblivion  —  blotter  out  of  light, 
Life's  ruthless  murderer,  and  dear  Love's  bale  ! 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  havoc  incomplete. 
Leaving  me  here,  and  slaying  the  more  sweet  1 


59 


60 


HERO    AND    LEAXDER. 


Lo  !  what  a  lovely  ruin  thou  hast  made  ! 
Alas  !  alas' !  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see, 
And  blindly  slew'st  him  in  misguided  shade. 
^Vould  I  had  lent  my  doting  sense  to  thee  ! 
But  now  I  turn  to  thee,  a  willing  mark, 
Thine  arrows  miss  me  in  the  aimless  dark  ! 

"  0,  doubly  cruel ! ; —  twice  misdoing  spite. 

But  I  will  guide  thee  with  my  helping  eyes. 

Or  walk  the  wide  world  through,  devoid  of  sight, 

Yet  thou  shalt  know  me  by  my  many  sighs. 

Kay,  then  thou  shouldst  have  spared  my  rose,  false  Death, 

And  known  Love's  flower  by  smelling  his  sweet  breath  ; 

"  Or,  when  thy  furious  rage  was  round  him  dealing, 
Love  should  have  grown  from  touching  of  his  skin  ; 
But  like  cold  marble  thou  art  all  unfeelins:. 
And  hast  no  ruddy  springs  of  warmth  within, 
And  being  but  a  shape  of  freezing  bone, 
Thy  touching  only  turned  my  love  to  stone  ! 

"  And  here,  alas  !  he  lies  across  my  knees, 
With  cheeks  still  colder  than  the  stilly  wave, 
The  light  beneath  his  eyelids  seems  to  freeze ; 
Here  then,  since  Love  is  dead  and  lacks  a  grave, 
0,  come  and  dig  it  in  my  sad  heart's  core  — 
That  wound  will  bring  a  balsam  for  its  sore  ! 

"  For  art  thou  not  a  sleep  where  sense  of  ill 
Lies  stingless,  like  a  sense  benumbed  with  cold, 
Healing  all  hurts  only  with  sleep's  good-will  1 
So  shall  I  slumber,  and  perchance  behold 
My  living  love  in  dreams, —  0,  happy  night, 
That  lets  me  company  his  banished  spright ! 


HERO    AND    LEAXDER.  61 

«'  0,  poppy  death  !  —  sweet  poisoner  of  sleep  ; 
VfixeYQ  shall  I  seek  for  thee,  oblivious  ckug, 
That  I  may  steep  thee  in  my  di'ink,  and  creep 
Out  of  life's  coil  ?     Look,  Idol !  how  I  hug 
Thy  dainty  image  in  this  strict  embrace, 
And  kiss  this  clay-cold  model  of  thy  face  ! 

"  Put  out,  put  out  these  sun-consuming  lamps  ! 
I  do  but  read  my  sorrows  by  their  shine  ; 
0,  come  and  quench  them  with  thy  oozy  damps, 
And  let  my  darkness  intermix  with  thine  ; 
Since  love  is  blinded,  wherefore  should  I  see  7 
Now  love  is  death,—  death  will  be  love  to  me  ' 

'■Away,  away,  this  vain  complaining  breath, 
It  does  but  stu-  the  troubles  that  I  weep  ; 
Let  it  be  hushed  and  quieted,  sweet  Death  ; 
The  wind  must  settle  ere  the  wave  can  sleep, — 
Since  love  is  silent  I  would  fain  be  mute ; 
0,  Death,  be  gracious  to  my  dying  suit !  " 

Thus  far  she  pleads,  but  pleading  naught  avails  her, 
For  Death,  her  sullen  bui-then,  deigns  no  heed  ; 
Then  with  dumb  craving  arms,  since  darkness  fails  her, 
She  prays  to  heaven's  fail-  light,  as  if  her  need 
Inspired  her  there  were  gods  to  pity  pain. 
Or  end  it. —  but  she  lifts  her  arms  in  vain  ! 

Poor  gilded  Grief !  the  subtle  light  by  this 
With  mazy  gold  creeps  through  her  watery  mine, 
And,  diving  do^-nward  through  the  green  abyss, 
Lights  up  her  palace  with  an  amber  shine  ; 
There,  falling  on  her  arms, —  the  crystal  skin 
Reveals  the  ruby  tide  that  fares  within. 
6 


D2 


HERO    AND    LEAXDER. 


Look  how  the  fulsome  beam  would  hang  a  glorj 
On  her  dark  hair,  but  the  dark  hairs  repel  it : 
Look  how  the  perjured  glow  suborns  a  storj 
On  her  pale  lips,  but  lips  refuse  to  tell  it ; 
Grief  will  not  swerve  from  grief,  however  told 
On  coral  lips,  or  charactered  in  gold  ; 

Or  else,  thou  maid  !  safe  anchored  on  Love's  neck. 
Listing  the  hapless  doom  of  young  Leander, 
Thou  wouldst  not  shed  a  tear  for  that  old  wi-eck. 
Sitting  secure  where  no  wild  surges  wander ; 
Whereas  the  woe  moves  on  with  tragic  pace, 
And  shows  its  sad  reflection  in  thy  face. 

Thus  having  travelled  on,  and  tracked  the  tale. 
Like  the  due  course  of  an  old  bas-relief, 
Where  Tragedy  pursues  her  progress  pale, 
Brood  here  a  while  upon  that  sea-maid's  grief, 
And  take  a  deeper  imprint  from  the  frieze 
Of  that  joung  Fate,  with  Death  upon  her  knees. 

Then  whilst  the  melancholy  Muse  withal 
Resumes  her  music  in  a  sadder  tone, 
INIeanwhile  the  sunbeam  strikes  upon  the  wall, 
Conceive  that  lovely  siren  to  live  on, 
Even  as  Hope  whispered,  the  Promethean  light 
Would  kindle  up  the  dead  Leander"s  spright. 

'•  'Tis  light,"  she  says,  '•  that  feeds  the  glittering  stars, 
And  those  were  stars  set  in  his  heavenly  brow ; 
But  this  salt  cloud,  this  cold  sea- vapor,  mars 
Their  radiant  breathing,  and  obscures  them  now ; 
Tlierefore  I  '11  lay  him  in  the  clear  blue  air. 
And  see  how  these  dull  orbs  will  kindle  there." 


HERO    AND    LEAXDER.  63 

Swiftly  as  dolphins  glide,  or  swifter  yet, 
With  dead  Leander  in  her  fond  arms'  fold, 
She  cleaves  the  meshes  of  that  radiant  net 
The  sun  hath  twined  above  of  liquid  gold, 
Xor  slacks  till  on  the  margin  of  the  land 
She  lays  his  body  on  the  glowing  sand. 

There,  like  a  pearly  waif,  just  past  the  reach 
Of  foamy  billows  he  lies  cast.     Just  then, 
Some  listless  fishers,  straying  doTvn  the  beach. 
Spy  out  this  wonder.     Thence  the  curious  men, 
Low  crouching,  creep  into  a  thicket  brake. 
And  watch  her  doings  till  their  rude  hearts  ache. 

First  she  begms  to  chafe  him  till  she  faints, 
Then  foils  upon  his  mouth  with  kisses  many, 
And  sometimes  pauses  m  her  own  complaints 
To  list  his  breathing,  but  there  is  not  any, — 
Then  looks  mto  his  eyes  where  no  light  dwells  • 
Light  makes  no  pictures  in  such  muddy  wells. 

The  bot  sun  parches  his  discovered  eyes, 

The  hot  sun  beats  on  his  discolored  limbs, 

The  sand  is  oozy  whereupon  he  lies, 

Soiling  his  fairness ;  —  then  away  she  swuns, 

Meaning  to  gather  him  a  daintier  bed, 

Plucking  the  cool  fresh  weeds,  brown,  green,  and  red. 

But,  simple-witted  thief,  while  she  dives  under 
Another  robs  her  of  her  amorous  theft ; 
The  ambushed  fishermen  creep  forth  to  plunder, 
And  steal  the  unwatched  treasure  she  has  left ; 
Only  his  void  impression  dints  the  sands : 
Leander  is  purloined  by  stealthy  hands  ! 


64  HERO    AXD    LEAXDER. 

Lo  !  how  she  shudders  off  the  beaded  -waye  ! 
Like  Grief  all  over  tears,  and  senseless  falls, 
His  void  imprint  seems  hollowed  for  her  grave ; 
Then,  rising  on  her  knees,  looks  round  and  calls 
On  Hero  !  Hero  !  —  having  learned  this  name 
Of  his  last  breath,  she  calls  him  bj  the  same. 

Then  with  her  frantic  hands  she  rends  her  hairs, 
And  casts  them  forth,  sad  keepsakes,  to  the  wind, 
As  if  in  plucking  those  she  plucked  her  cares  ; 
But  grief  lies  deeper,  and  remains  behind 
Like  a  barbed  arrow,  rankling  in  her  brain, 
Turning  her  very  thoughts  to  throbs  of  pain. 

Anon  her  tangled  locks  are  left  alone, 
And  down  upon  the  sand  she  meekly  sits, 
Hard  by  the  foam,  as  humble  as  a  stone. 
Like  an  enchanted  maid  beside  her  wits. 
That  ponders  with  a  look  serene  and  tragic, 
Stunned  by  the  mighty  mystery  of  magic. 

Or  think  of  Ariadne's  utter  trance. 

Crazed  by  the  flight  of  that  disloyal  traitor, 

^Yho  left  her  gazing  on  the  green  expanse 

That  swallowed  up  his  track, —  yet  this  would  mate  her 

Even  in  the  cloudy  sumanit  of  her  woe, 

When  o'er  the  far  sea-brim  she  saw  him  go. 

For  even  so  she  bows,  and  bends  her  gaze 

O'er  the  eternal  waste,  as  if  to  sum 

Its  waves  by  weary  thousands  all  her  days. 

Dismally  doomed  !  meanwhile  the  billows  come. 

And  coldly  dabble  with  her  quiet  feet, 

Like  any  bleaching  stones  they  wont  to  greet. 


HERO    AND   LEANDER.  65 

And  thence  into  her  lap  have  boldly  sprung, 

Washing  her  weedy  tresses  to  and  fro, 

That  round  her  crouching  knees  have  darkly  hung ; 

But  she  sits  careless  of  waves'  ebb  and  flow, 

Like  a  lone  beacon  on  a  desert  coast, 

Showing  where  all  her  hope  was  wrecked  and  lost. 

Yet  whether  in  the  sea  or  vaulted  sky, 

She  knoweth  not  her  love's  abrupt  resort, 

So  like  a  shape  of  dreams  he  left  her  eye, 

Winking  with  doubt.     Meanwhile,  the  churls'  report 

Has  thronged  the  beach  with  many  a  curious  face, 

That  peeps  upon  her  j5.*om  its  hiding-place. 

And  here  a  head,  and  there  a  brow  half  seen, 

Dodges  behind  a  rock.     Here  on  his  hands 

A  mariner  his  crumpled  cheeks  doth  lean 

Over  a  rugged  crest.     Another  stands, 

Holdinor  bis  harmful  arrow  at  the  head, 

Still  checked  by  human  caution  and  strange  dread. 

One  stops  his  ears, —  another  close  beholder 

Wliispers  unto  the  next  his  grave  surmise ; 

This  crouches  down, —  and  just  above  liis  shoulder, 

A  woman's  pity  saddens  in  her  eyes. 

And  prompts  her  to  befriend  that  lonely  grief, 

With  all  sweet  helps  of  sisterly  relief 

And  down  the  sunny  beach  she  paces  slowly. 
With  many  doubtful  pauses  by  the  way ; 
Grief  hath  an  influence  so  hushed  and  holy, — 
Making  her  twice  attempt,  ere  she  can  lay 
Her  hand  upon  that  sea-maid's  shoulder  white, 
Which  makes  her  startle  up  in  wild  affright. 
6* 


66  HERO    AXD    LEANDER. 

And,  like  a  seal,  she  leaps  into  the  wave. 
That  drowns  the  shrill  remainder  of  her  scream ; 
Anon  the  sea  fills  up  the  watery  care, 
And  seals  her  exit  with  a  foamy  seam, — 
Leaving  those  baffled  gazers  on  the  beach, 
Turning  in  uncouth  wonder  each  to  each. 

Some  watch,  some  call,  some  see  her  head  emerge. 
Wherever  a  brown  weed  falls  thipugh  the  foam ; 
Some  point  to  white  eruptions  of  the  surge :  — 
But  she  is  vanished  to  her  shady  home, 
Under  the  deep,  inscrutable, —  and  there 
Weeps  in  a  midnight  made  of  her  own  hair. 

Now  here  the  sighing  winds,  before  unheard, 
Forth  from  their  cloudy  caves  begin  to  blow, 
Till  all  the  surface  of  the  deep  is  stirred. 
Like  to  the  panting  grief  it  hides  below ; 
And  heaven  is  covered  with  a  stormy  rack 
Soiling  the  waters  with  its  inky  black. 

The  screaming  fowl  resigns  her  finny  prey. 
And  labors  shoreward  with  a  bendincr  -winar, 
Rowing  against  the  wind  her  toilsome  way ; 
Meanwhile,  the  curling  billows  chafe,  and  fling 
Their  dewy  frost  still  further  on  the  stones. 
That  answer  to  the  wind  with  hollow  groans. 

And  here  and  there  a  fisher's  far-off  bark 
Flies  with  the  sun's  last  glimpse  upon  its  sail, 
Like  a  bright  flame  amid  the  waters  dark, 
Watched  with  the  hope  and  fear  of  maidens  pale. 
And  anxious  mothers  that  upturn  their  brows. 
Freighting  the  gusty  wind  with  frequent  vows, 


HERO    AND    LEANDER.  61 

For  that  the  horrid  deep  has  no  sure  track 
To  guide  love  safe  into  his  homely  haven. 
And,  lo  !  the  storm  groTvs  blacker  in  its  wrath, 
O'er  the  dark  billow  brooding  like  a  raven, 
That  bodes  of  death  and  widow's  sorrowing, 
Under  the  dusty  covert  of  his  wing. 

And  so  day  ended.     But  no  vesper  spark 
Hung  forth  its  heavenly  sign  ;  but  sheets  of  flame 
Played  round  the  savage  features  of  the  dark, 
Making  night  horrible.     That  night,  there  came 
A  weeping  maiden  to  high  Sestos'  steep, 
And  tore  her  hair  and  gazed  upon  the  deep. 

And  waved  aloft  her  bright  and  ruddy  torch, 
Whose  flame  the  boastful  wind  so  rudely  fanned. 
That  oft  it  would  recoil,  and  basely  scorch 
The  tender  covert  of  her  sheltering  hand ; 
Which  yet,  for  love's  dear  sake,  disdained  retire, 
And,  like  a  glorying  martyr,  braved  the  fire. 

For  that  was  love's  own  sign  and  beacon  guide 
Across  the  Hellespont's  wide  weary  space. 
Wherein  he  nightly  struggled  with  the  tide  ; 
Look  what  a  red  it  forges  on  her  face, 
As  if  she  blushed  at  holding  such  a  light. 
Even  in  the  unseen  presence  of  the  night ! 

Whereas  her  tragic  cheek  is  truly  pale, 

And  colder  than  the  rude  and  ruffian  air 

That  howls  into  her  ear  a  horrid  tale 

Of  storm,  and  wreck,  and  uttermost  despair, 

Saying,  '•  Leander  floats  amid  the  surge, 

And  those  are  dismal  waves  that  sing  his  dirge." 


68  HERO    AND    LEANDER. 

And,  bark  !  —  a  grieving  voice,  trembling  and  faint, 
Blends  witb  tbe  bollow  sobbings  of  the  sea  ; 
Like  tbe  sad  music  of  a  siren's  plaint, 
But  shriller  than  Leander's  voice  should  be, 
Unless  the  wintry  death  had  changed  its  tone, — 
Wherefore  she  thinks  she  hears  his  spirit  moan. 

For  now,  upon  each  brief  and  breathless  pause 
Made  by  the  raging  winds,  it  plainly  calls 
On  Hero  !  Hero  !  —  whereupon  she  draws 
Close  to  the  dizzy  brink,  that  ne'er  appalls 
Her  brave  and  constant  spirit  to  recoil, 
However  the  wild  billows  toss  and  toil. 

"  0  !  dost  thou  live  under  the  deep,  deep  sea  ? 
I  thought  such  love  as  .thine  could  never  die ; 
If  thou  hast  gained  an  immortality 
From  the  kind  pitying  sea-god,  so  will  I ; 
And  this  false  cruel  tide,  that  used  to  sever 
Our  hearts,  shall  be  our  common  home  forever  ! 

"  There  we  will  sit  and  sport  upon  one  billow, 
And  sing  our  ocean-ditties  all  the  day. 
And  lie  together  on  the  same  green  pillow, 
That  curls  above  us  with  its  dewy  spray  ; 
And  ever  in  one  presence  live  and  dwell,  ■ 
Like  two  twin  pearls  within  the  self-same  shell." 

One  moment,  then,  upon  the  dizzy  verge 

She  stands ;  —  with  face  upturned  against  the  sky ; 

A  moment  more,  upon  the  foamy  surge 

She  gazes,  with  a  calm  despairing  eye ; 

Feeling  that  awful  pause  of  blood  and  breath 

Which  life  endures  when  it  confronts  with  death ;  — 


HERO   AND    LEANDER.  69 

Then  from  the  giddy  steep  she  madly  springs, 
Grasping  her  maiden  robes,  that  vainly  kept 
Panting  abroad,  like  unavailing  wings. 
To  save  her  from  her  death. —  The  sea-maid  wept, 
And  in  a  crystal  cave  her  corse  enshrined ; 
No  meaner  sepulchre  should  Hero  find  ! 


LYCUS,    THE    CENTAUR. 

FROM   AN  UNKOLLED   MANTSCRIPT   OF    APOLLONIUS    CTRIUS. 


THE   ARGUMENT. 

Lyous,  detained  by  Circe  in  her  magical  dominion,  is  beloved  by  a  Wate 
Nymph,  who,  desiring  to  render  him  immortal,  has  recourse  to  the  Sorcer- 
ess.    Circe  gives  her  an  incantation  to  pronounce,  which  should   turn 
Lycus  into  a  horse  ;  but  the  horrible  effect  of  the  charm  causing  her  to 
break  off  in  the  midst,  he  becomes  a  Centaur. 

Who  hath  ever  been  lured  and  bound  by  a  spell 
To  wander,  foredoomed,  in  that  circle  of  hell 
Where  Witchery  works  with  her  will  like  a  god, 
Works  more  than  the  wonders  of  time  at  a  nod, — 
At  a  word, —  at  a  touch, —  at  a  flash  of  the  eye  ; 
But  each  form  is  a  cheat,  and  each  sound  is  a  lie. 
Things  born  of  a  wish  —  to  endure  for  a  thought, 
Or  last  for  long  ages  —  to  vanish  to  naught. 
Or  put  on  new  semblance  7    0  Jove,  I  had  given 
The  throne  of  a  kingdom  to  know  if  that  heaven 
And  the  earth  and  its  streams  were  of  Circe,  or  whether 
They  kept  the  world's  birth-day  and  brightened  together  ! 
For  I  loved  them  in  terror,  and  constantly  dreaded 
That  the  earth  where  I  trod,  and  the  cave  where  I  bedded, 
The  flice  I  might  dote  on,  should  live  out  the  lease 
Of  the  charm  that  created,  and  suddenly  cease : 
And  I  gave  me  to  slumber,  as  if  from  one  dream 
To  another  —  each  horrid  —  and  drank  of  the  stream 
7 


74  LYCUS,    THE   CENTAUR. 

Like  a  first  taste  of  blood,  lest  as  water  I  quaffed 

Swift  poison,  and  never  should  breathe  from  the  draught, — 

Such  drink  as  her  own  monarch-husband  drained  up 

When  he  pledged  her,  and  Fate  closed  his  ejes  in  the  cup. 

And  I  plucked  of  the  fruit  with  held  breath,  and  a  fear 

That  the  branch  would  start  back  and  scream  out  in  my  car : 

For  once,  at  my  suppering,  I  plucked  in  the  dusk 

An  apple,  juice-gushing  and  fragrant  of  musk ; 

But  by  daylight  my  fingers  were  crimsoned  with  gore, 

And  the  half-eaten  fragment  was  flesh  at  the  core  ; 

And  once  —  only  once  —  for  the  love  of  its  blush, 

I  broke  a  bloom-bough,  but  there  came  such  a  gush 

On  my  hand,  that  it  fainted  away  in  weak  fright, 

While  the  leaf-hidden  woodpecker  shrieked  at  the  sight ; 

And,  0  !  such  an  agony  thrilled  in  that  note, 

That  my  soul,  startling  up,  beat  its  wings  in  my  throat, 

As  it  longed  to  be  free  of  a  body  Avhose  hand 

Was  doomed  to  work  torments  a  Fury  had  planned  ! 

There  I  stood  without  stir,  yet  how  willing  to  flee, 
As  if  rooted  and  horror-turned  into  a  tree, — 

0  !  for  innocent  death, —  and,  to  suddenly  win  it, 

1  drank  of  the  stream,  but  no  poison  was  in  it ; 
I  plunged  in  its  waters,  but  ere  I  could  sink 
Some  invisible  fate  pulled  me  back  to  the  brink ; 
I  sprang  from  the  rock,  from  its  pinnacle  height. 
But  fell  on  the  grass  with  a  grasshopper's  flight ; 
I  ran  at  my  fears  —  they  were  fears  and  no  more. 

For  the  bear  would  not  mangle  my  limbs,  nor  the  boar. 
But  moaned, —  all  their  brutalized  flesh  could  not  smother 
The  horrible  truth, —  we  were  kin  to  each  other  ! 

They  were  mournfully  gentle,  and  grouped  for  relief. 
All  foes  in  their  skin,  but  all  friends  in  their  grief: 


LYCUS,    THE   CENTAUR. 


70 


The  leopard  was  there, —  baby-mild  in  its  feature ; 

And  the  tiger,  black-barred,  Avith  the  gaze  of  a  creature 

That  knew  gentle  pity ;  the  bristle-backed  boar. 

His  innocent  tusks  stiiined  with  mulberry  gore ; 

And  the  laughing  hyena  —  but  laughing  no  more ; 

And  the  snake,  not  with  magical  orbs  to  devise 

Strange  death,  but  with  woman's  attraction  of  eyes ; 

The  tall  ugly  ape,  that  still  bore  a  dim  shine 

Through  his  hairy  eclipse  of  a  manhood  divine ; 

And  the  elephant  stately,  with  more  than  its  reason, 

How  thoughtful  in  sadness !  but  this  is  no  season 

To  reckon  them  up,  from  the  lag-bellied  toad 

To  the  mammoth,  whose  sobs  shook  his  ponderous  load. 

There  were  woes  of  all  shapes,  wretched  forms,  when  I  came^ 

That  hung  down  their  heads  with  a  human-like  shame ; 

The  elephant  hid  in  the  boughs,  and  the  bear 

Shed  over  his  eyes  the  dark  veil  of  his  hair ; 

And  the  womanly  soul,  turning  sick  with  disgust, 

Tried  to  vomit  herself  from  her  serpentine  crust ; 

While  all  groaned  their  groans  into  one  at  their  lot, 

As  I  brought  them  the  image  of  what  they  were  not. 

Then  rose  a  wild  sound  of  the  human  voice  choking 
Through  vile  brutal  organs  —  low  tremulous  croaking  ; 
Cries  swallowed  abruptly  —  deep  animal  tones 
Attuned  to  strange  passion,  aud  full-uttered  groans ; 
All  shuddering  weaker,  till  hushed  in  a  pause 
Of  tongues  in  mute  motion  and  wide-yaAvning  jaws ; 
And  I  cfuessed  that  those  horrors  were  meant  to  tell  o'er 
The  tale  of  their  woes,  but  the  silence  told  more 
Tliat  writhed  on  their  tongues  ;  and  I  knelt  on  the  sod, 
And  prayed  with  my  voice  to  the  cloud-stirring  God, 
For  the  sad  congregation  of  supplicants  there. 
That  upturned  to  his  heaven  brute  faces  of  prayer ; 


76  LTCUS,    THE   CENTAUR. 

And  I  ceased,  and  they  uttered  a  moaning  so  deep, 

That  I  wept  for  my  heart-ease, —  but  they  could  not  weep, 

And  gazed  with  red  eyeballs,  all  wistfully  dry, 

At  the  comfort  of  tears  in  a  stag's  human  eye. 

Then  I  motioned  them  round,  and,  to  soothe  their  distress, 

I  caressed,  and  they  bent  them  to  meet  my  caress, 

Their  necks  to  my  arm,  and  their  heads  to  my  palm, 

And  with  poor  grateful  eyes  suffered  meekly  and  calm 

Those  tokens  of  kindness,  withheld  by  hard  fate 

From  returns  that  might  cliill  the  warm  pity  to  hate ; 

So  they  passively  bowed  —  save  the  serpent,  that  leapt 

To  my  breast  Hke  a  sister,  and  pressingly  crept 

In  embrace  of  my  neck,  and  with  close  kisses  blistered 

My  lips  in  rash  love, —  then  di'ew  backward,  and  glistered 

Her  eyes  in  my  face,  and,  loud  hissing  affright, 

Dropt  down,  and  swift  started  away  from  my  sight ! 

This  sorrow  was  theirs,  but  thrice  wretched  my  lot, 
Turned  brute  in  my  soul,  though  my  body  was  not 
When  I  fled  from  the  sorrow  of  womanly  faces, 
That  shrouded  their  woe  in  the  shade  of  lone  places, 
And  dashed  off  bright  tears  till  their  fingers  were  wet, 
And  then  wiped  their  lids  with  long  tresses  of  jet : 
But  I  fled  —  though  they  stretched  out   then-   hands,  all 

entangled 
With  hair,  and  blood-stained  of  the  breasts  they  had  man- 
gled,— 
Though  they  called  —  and  perchance  but  to  ask  had  I  seen 
Their  loves,  or  to  tell  the  vile  wrongs  that  had  been  : 
But  I  stayed  not  to  hear,  lest  the  story  should  hold 
Some  hell-form  of  words,  some  enchantment,  once  told, 
Might  translate  me  in  flesh  to  a  brute ;  and  I  dreaded 
To  gaze  on  their  charms,  lest  my  faith  should  be  wedded 


LYCUS,    THE   CENTAUR.  77 

With  some  pity, —  and  love  in  that  pity  perchance, — 
To  a  thing  not  all  lovely  ;  for  once  at  a  glance 
Methought,  where  one  sat,  I  descried  a  bright  wonder 
That  flowed  like  a  long  silver  rivulet  under 
The  long  fenny  grass,  with  so  lovely  a  breast, 
Could  it  be  a  snake-tail  made  the  charm  of  the  rest  7 

So  I  roamed  in  that  circle  of  Horrors,  and  Fear 
Walked  with  me,  by  hills,  and  in  valleys,  and  near 
Clustered  trees  for  their  gloom  —  not  to  shelter  from  heat  — 
But  lest  a  brute  shadow  should  grow  at  my  feet ; 
And  besides  that  full  oft  in  the  sunshiny  place 
Dark  shadows  would  gather  like  clouds  on  its  face, 
In  the  horrible  likeness  of  demons,  (that  none 
Could  see,  like  invisible  flames  in  the  sun  ;) 
But  grew  to  one  monster  that  seized  on  the  light, 
Like  the  dragon  that  strangles  the  moon  in  the  night ; 
Fierce  sphinxes,  long  serpents,  and  asps  of  the  South ; 
Wild  birds  of  huge  beak,  and  all  horrors  that  drouth 
Engenders  of  slime  in  the  land  of  the  pest, 
Vile  shapes  without  shape,  and  foul  bats  of  the  West, 
Bringing;  Night  on  their  wings :  and  the  bodies  wherein 
Great  Brahma  imprisons  the  spirits  of  sin, 
Many-handed,  that  blent  in  one  phantom  of  fight 
Like  a  Titan,  and  threatfully  warred  with  the  light ; 
I  have  heard  the  Avild  shriek  that  gave  signal  to  close, 
When  they  rushed  on  that  shadowy  Python  of  foes, 
That  met  with  sharp  beaks  and  wide  gaping  of  jaws, 
With  flappings  of  wings,  and  fierce  grasping  of  claws. 
And  whirls  of  long  tails  :  —  I  have  seen  the  quick  flutter 
Of  fragments  dissevered, —  and  necks  stretched  to  utter 
Long  screamings  of  pain, —  the  swift  motion  of  blows, 
A.nd  wrestling  of  arms  —  to  the  flight  at  the  close, 
7* 


78  LYCUS.    THE    CEXTAUR. 

When  the  dust  of  the  earth  startled  upward  in  rings, 
And  flew  on  the  whirlwind  that  followed  their  wmgs. 

Thus  they  fled  —  not  forgotten  —  but  often  to  grow 
Like  fears  in  mj  eyes,  when  I  walked  to  and  fro 
In  the  shadows,  and  felt  from  some  beings  unseen 
The  warm  touch  of  kisses,  but  clean  or  unclean 
I  knew  not.  nor  whether  the  love  I  had  won 
Was  of  heaven  or  hell  —  till  one  day  in  the  sun, 
In  its  very  noon-blaze.  I  could  fancy  a  thing 
Of  beauty,  but  faint  as  the  cloud-mirrors  fling 
On  the  gaze  of  the  shepherd  that  watches  the  sky, 
Half-seen,  and  half-dreamed  in  the  soul  of  his  eye. 
And  when  in  my  musings  I  gazed  on  the  stream, 
In  motionless  trances  of  thought,  there  would  seem 
A  face  like  that  face,  looking  upward  through  mine : 
With  its  eyes  full  of  love,  and  the  dim-droTs-ned  shine 
Of  limbs  and  fiir  garments,  like  clouds  in  that  blue 
Serene  :  —  there  I  stood  for  long  hours  but  to  view 
Those  fond  earnest  eyes  that  were  ever  uplifted 
Towards  me,  and  winked  as  the  water- weed  drifted 
Between  ;  but  the  fish  knew  that  presence,  and  plied 
Their  long  cnrvj  tails,  and  swift  darted  aside. 

There  I  gazed  for  lost  time,  and  forgot  all  the  things 
That  once  had  been  wonders  —  the  fishes  with  wino-s. 
And  the  glimmer  of  magnified  eyes  that  looked  up 
From  the  glooms  of  the  bottom  like  pearls  in  a  cup, 
And  the  huge  endless  serpent  of  silvery  gleam, 
Slow  windins;  aloncr  like  a  tide  in  the  stream. 
Some  maid  of  the  waters,  some  Xaiad,  methought 
Held  me  dear  in  the  pearl  of  her  eye  —  and  I  brought 
My  wish  to  that  fancy  ;  and  often  I  dashed 
My  limbs  in  the  water,  and  suddenly  splashed 


LYCUS,    THE    CENTAUR.  73 

The  cool  drops  around  me,  3-et  clung  to  the  brink, 
Chilled  by  watery  fears,  how  that  Beauty  might  sink 
With  my  life  in  her  arms  to  her  garden,  and  bind  me 
"With  its  long  tangled  grasses,  or  cruelly  wind  me 
In  some  eddy  to  hum  out  my  life  in  her  ear. 
Like  a  spider-caught  bee, —  and  in  aid  of  that  fear 
Came  the  tardy  remembrance  —  0,  falsest  of  men  ! 
"Wliy  was  not  that  beauty  remembered  till  then  ] 
jMy  love,  my  safe  love,  whose  glad  life  would  have  run 
Into  mine  —  like  a  drop  —  that  our  fate  might  be  one. 
That  now,  even  now, —  may-be, — clasped  in  a  dream, 
That  form  which  I  gave  to  some  jilt  of  the  stream. 
And  gazed  with  fond  eyes  that  her  tears  tried  to  smother 
On  a  mock  of  those  eyes  that  I  gave  to  another  ! 

Then  I  rose  from  the  stream,  but  the  eyes  of  my  mind, 
Still  full  of  the  tempter,  kept  gazing  behind 
On  her  crystalline  face,  while  I  painfully  leapt 
To  the  bank,  and  shook  off  the  cursed  waters,  and  wept 
With  my  brow  in  the  reeds  ;  and  the  reeds  to  my  ear 
Bowed;  bent  by  no  wind,  and  in  whispers  of  fear. 
Growing  small  with  large  secrets,  foretold  me  of  one 
That  loved  me, —  but  0  to  fly  from  her,  and  shun 
Her  love  like  a  pest  —  though  her  love  was  as  true 
To  mine  as  her  stream  to  the  heavenly  blue  : 
For  why  should  I  love  her  with  love  that  would  bring 
All  misfortune,  like  Hate,  on  so  joyous  a  thing  7 
Because  of  her  rival. —  even  Her  whose  witch-fiice 
I  had  slighted,  and  therefore  was  doomed  in  that  place 
To  roam,  and  had  roamed,  where  all  horrors  grew  rank, 
Nine  days  ere  I  wept  with  my  brow  on  that  bank : 
Her  name  be  not  named,  but  her  spite  would  not  fail 
To  our  love  like  a  blight ;  and  they  told  me  the  tale 


80  LYCUS,    THE    CENTAUR. 

Of  Scylla,  and  Picus,  imprisoned  to  speak 

His  shrill-screaming  woe  through  a  woodpecker's  beak. 

Then  they  ceased — I  had  heard  as  the  voice  of  my  star 
That  told  me  the  truth  of  my  fortunes  —  thus  far 
I  had  read  of  my  sorrow,  and  lay  in  the  hush 
Of  deep  meditation, —  when,  lo  !  a  light  crush 
Of  the  reeds,  and  I  turned  and  looked  round  in  the  night 
Of  new  sunshine,  and  saw,  as  I  sipped  of  the  light 
Narrow- winking,  the  realized  nymph  of  the  stream, 
Rising  up  from  the  wave  with  the  bend  and  the  gleam 
Of  a  fountain,  and  o'er  her  white  arms  she  kept  throwing 
Bright  torrents  of  hair,  that  went  flowing  and  flowing 
In  falls  to  her  feet,  and  the  blue  waters  rolled 
Down  her  limbs  like  a  garment,  in  many  a  fold, 
Sun-spangled,  gold-broidered,  and  fled  far  behind, 
Like  an  infinite  train.     So  she  came  and  reclined 
In  the  reeds,  and  I  hungered  to  see  her  unseal 
The  buds  of  her  eyes  that  would  ope  and  reveal 
The  blue  that  was  in  them ;  and  they  oped  and  she  raised 
Two  orbs  of  pure  crystal,  and  timidly  gazed 
With  her  eyes  on  my  eyes  ;  but  their  color  and  shine 
Was  of  that  which  they  looked  on,  and  mostly  of  mine  — 
For  she  loved  me, —  except  when  she  blushed,  and  they  sank, 
Shame-huml)led,  to  number  the  stones  on  the  bank, 
Or  her  play-idle  fingers,  while  lisping  she  told  me 
How  she  put  on  her  veil,  and  in  love  to  behold  me 
AVould  wing  through  the  sun  till  she  fainted  away 
Like  a  mist,  and  then  flew  to  her  waters  and  lay 
In  love-patience  long  hours,  and  sore  dazzled  her  eyes 
In  watching  for  mine  'gainst  the  midsummer  skies. 
But  now  they  were  healed, —  0  my  heart,  it  still  dances 
When  I  think  of  the  charm  of  her  changeable  glances, 


LYCUS,    THE    CEXTAUR.  81 

Ajid  mj  image  how  small  when  it  sank  in  the  deep 

Of  her  eyes  where  her  soul  was, —  Alas  !  now  thej  weep, 

And  none  knoweth  where.     In  what  stream  do  her  eyes 

Shed  mvisible  tears  ?    Who  beholds  v.herc  her  sighs 

Flow  in  eddies,  or  see  the  ascents  of  the  leaf 

She  has  plucked  Avith  her  tresses  7    Who  listens  her  giief 

Like  a  for  fall  of  waters,  or  hears  where  her  feet 

Grow  emphatic  among  the  loose  pebbles,  and  beat 

Them  together  ]    Ah  !  surely  her  flowers  float  adown 

To  the  sea  unaccepted,  and  little  ones  di'own 

For  need  of  her  mercy, —  even  he  whose  twin-brother 

Will  miss  him  forever  ;  and  the  sorrowful  mother 

Imploreth  in  vain  for  his  body  to  kiss 

And  cling  to,  all  dripping  and  cold  as  it  is, 

Because  that  soft  pity  is  lost  in  hard  pain  ! 

We  loved, —  how  we  loved  !  —  for  I  thought  not  again 

Of  the  woes  that  were  whispered  like  fears  in  that  place 

If  I  gave  me  to  beauty.     Her  foce  was  the  face 

Far  away,  and  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  that  were  drowned 

For  my  absence, —  her  arms  were  the  arms  that  sought  round, 

And  clasped  me  to  naught :  for  I  gazed  and  became 

Only  true  to  my  falsehood,  and  had  but  one  name 

For  two  loves,  and  called  ever  on  ^gle,  sweet  maid 

Of  the  sky-loAdng  waters. —  and  was  not  afraid 

Of  the  sight  of  her  skin :  —  for  it  never  could  be 

Her  beauty  and  love  were  misfortunes  to  me  ! 

Thus  our  bliss  had  endui'ed  for  a  time-shortened  space. 
Like  a  day  made  of  three,  and  the  smile  of  her  foce 
Had  been  with  me  for  joy, —  when  she  told  me  indeed 
Her  love  was  self-tasked  with  a  work  that  would  need 
Some  sliort  hours,  for  in  truth  "  t  was  the  veriest  pity 
Our  love  should  not  last,  and  then  sang  me  a  ditty 


I 


82  LTCUS,    THE    CENTAUR. 

Of  one  with  warm  lips  that  should  love  her.  and  love  her 

When  suns  were  burnt  dim  and  long  ages  past  over. 

So  she  fled  with  her  voice,  and  I  patiently  nested 

My  limbs  in  the  reeds,  in  still  quiet,  and  rested 

Till  my  thoughts  grew  extinct,  and  I  sank  in  a  sleep 

Of  di-eams, —  but  their  meaning  was  hidden  too  deep 

To  be  read  what  their  woe  was ;  —  but  still  it  was  woe 

That  was  writ  on  all  faces  that  swam  to  and  fro 

In  that  river  of  night ;  —  and  the  gaze  of  their  eyes 

Was  sad, —  and  the  bend  of  their  brows, —  and  their  cries 

Were  seen,  but  I  heard  not.     The  warm  touch  of  tears 

Travelled  down  my  cold  cheeks,  and  I  shook  till  my  fears 

Awaked  me,  and,  lo  !  I  was  couched  in  a  bower, 

The  growth  of  long  summers  reared  up  in  an  hour  ! 

Then  I  said,  in  the  fear  of  my  di-eam,  I  will  fly 

From  this  magic,  but  could  not,  because  that  my  eye 

Grew  love-idle  among  the  rich  blooms ;  and  the  earth 

Held  me  down  with  its  coolness  of  touch,  and  the  mirth 

Of  some  bird  was  above  me, —  who,  even  in  fear. 

Would  startle  tlie  thrush  ?  and  methought  there  drew  near 

A  form  as  of  2Etg\e, —  but  it  was  not  the  face 

Hope  made,  and  I  knew  the  witch- Queen  of  that  place. 

Even  Circe  the  Cruel,  that  came  like  a  Death 

Which  I  feared,  and  yet  fled  not,  for  want  of  my  breath. 

There  was  thought  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  not  raised 

From  the  grass  at  her  foot,  but  I  saw.  as  I  gazed, 

Her  spite  —  and  her  countenance  changed  with  her  mind, 

As  she  planned  how  to  thrall  me  with  beauty,  and  bind 

My  soul  to  her  charms, —  and  her  long  tresses  played 

From  shade  into  shine  and  from  shine  into  shade. 

Like  a  day  in  mid-autumn, —  first  fair,  0  how  fair  ! 

With  long  snaky  locks  of  the  adder-black  haii- 


LYCTTS,    THE    CENTAUR. 


83 


riifit  clung  round  her  neck, —  those  dark  locks  that  I  prize, 

For  the  sake  of  a  maid  that  once  loved  me  with  eyes 

Of  that  fathomless  hue, —  but  they  changed  as  they  rolled 

And  brightened,  and  suddenly  ))lazed  into  gold 

That  she  combed  into  flames,  and  the  locks  that  fell  down 

Turned  dark  as  they  fell,  but  I  slighted  their  brown, 

Nor  loved,  till  I  saw  the  light  ringlets  shed  wild, 

That  innocence  wears  when  she  is  but  a  child  ; 

And  her  eyes, —  0, 1  ne'er  had  been  witched  with  their  shine, 

Had  they  been  any  other,  my  -^gle,  than  thine  ! 

Then  I  gave  me  to  magic,  and  gazed  till  I  maddened 
In  the  full  of  their  light, —  but  I  saddened  and  saddened 
The  deeper  I  looked, —  till  I  sank  on  the  snow 
Of  her  bosom,  a  thing  made  of  terror  and  woe, 
And  answered  its  throb  with  a  shudder  of  fears. 
And  hid  my  cold  eyes  from  her  eyes  with  my  tears, 
And  strained  her  white  arms  with  the  still  languid  weight 
Of  a  faintinsj  distress.     There  she  sat  like  the  Fate 
That  is  nurse  unto  Death,  and  bent  over  in  shame 
To  hide  me  from  her  —  the  true  2Eg\e  —  that  came 
With  the  words  on  her  lips  the  fiilse  witch  had  foregiven 
To  make  me  immortal  —  for  now  I  was  even 
At  the  portals  of  Death,  who  but  waited  the  hush 
Of  world-sounds  in  my  ear  to  cry  welcome,  and  rush 
With  my  soul  to  the  banks  of  his  black-flowing  river. 
0,  would  it  had  flown  from  my  body  forever. 
Ere  I  listened  those  words,  when  I  felt,  with  a  start, 
The  life-blood  rush  back  in  one  throb  to  my  heart. 
And  saw  the  pale  lips  where  the  rest  of  that  spell 
Had  perished  in  horror  —  and  heard  the  farewell 
Of  that  voice  that  was  drowned  in  the  dash  of  the  stream ' 
How  fain  had  I  followed,  and  plunged  with  that  scream 


84  LYCUS,    THE    CENTAUR. 

Into  death,  but  mj  being  indignantly  lagged 

Through  the  brutalized  flesh  that  I  painfully  dragged 

Behind  me  :  — "  0,  Circe  !  0,  mother  of  spite  ! 

Speak  the  last  of  that  curse  !  and  imprison  me  quite 

In  the  husk  of  a  brute, —  that  no  pity  may  name 

The  man  that  I  was, —  that  no  kindred  may  claim 

The  monster  I  am  !     Let  me  utterly  be 

Brute-buried,  and  Nature's  dishonor  with  me 

Uninscribed  !  " — But   she   listened    my  prayer,  that  wag 

praise 
To  her  malice,  with  smiles,  and  advised  me  to  gaze 
On  the  river  for  love, —  and  perchance  she  would  make 
In  pity  a  maid  without  eyes  for  my  sake, 
And  she  left  me  like  Scorn.     Then  I  asked  of  the  wave 
What  monster  I  was ;  and  it  trembled  and  gave 
The  true  shape  of  my  grief,  and  I  turned  with  my  face 
From  all  waters  forever,  and  fled  through  that  place, 
Till  with  horror  more  strong  than  all  magic  I  passed 
Its  bounds,  and  the  world  was  before  me  at  last. 

There  I  wandered  in  sorrow,  and  shunned  the  abodes 
Of  men,  that  stood  up  in  the  likeness  of  gods. 
But  I  saw  from  afar  the  warm  shine  of  the  sun 
On  their  cities,  where  man  was  a  million,  not  one ; 
And  I  saw  the  white  smoke  of  their  altars  ascending, 
That  showed  where  the  hearts  of  the  many  were  blentling, 
And  the  wind  in  my  face  brought  shrill  voices  that  came 
From  the  trumpets  that  gathered  whole  bands  in  one  fame 
As  a  chorus  of  man, —  and  they  streamed  from  the  gates 
Like  a  dusky  libation  poured  out  to  the  Fates. 
But  at  times  there  were  gentler  processions  of  peace. 
That  I  watched  with  my  soul  in  my  eyes  till  their  cease, 


LTCUS,    THE    CENTAUR.  85 

There  were  women  !  there  men  !  but  to  me  a  third  sex 

I  saw  them  all  dots  —  yet  I  loved  them  as  specks  : 

And  oft,  to  assuage  a  sad  yearning  of  eyes, 

I  stole  near  the  city,  but  stole  covert-wise, 

Like  a  wild  beast  of  love,  and  perchance  to  be  smitten 

By  some  hand  that  I  rather  had  wept  on  than  bitten ! 

0.  I  once  had  a  haunt  near  a  cot  where  a  mother 

Daily  sat  in  the  shade  with  her  child,  and  would  smother 

Its  eyelids  in  kisses,  and  then  in  its  sleep 

Sang  di'eams  in  its  ear  of  its  manhood,  while  deep 

In  a  thicket  of  willows  I  gazed  o'er  the  brooks 

That  murmured  between  us,  and  kissed  them  with  looks  ; 

But  the  willows  unbosomed  their  secret,  and  never 

I  returned  to  a  spot  I  had  startled  forever, 

Though  I  oft  longed  to  know,  but  could  ask  it  of  none, 

"Was  the  mother  still  fair,  and  how  big  was  her  son. 

For  the  haunters  of  fields  they  all  shunned  me  by  flight, 
The  men  in  their  horror,  the  women  in  fright ; 
None  ever  remained  save  a  child  once  that  sported 
Among  the  wild  bluebells,  and  painfully  couiied 
The  breeze ;  and  beside  him  a  speckled  snake  lay 
Tight  strangled,  because  it  had  hissed  him  away 
From  the  flower  at  his  finger ;  he  rose  and  drew  near 
Like  a  Son  of  Immortals,  one  born  to  no  fear, 
But  with  strength  of  black  locks  and  with  eyes  azure  bright 
To  grow  to  large  manhood  of  merciful  might. 
He  came,  with  his  face  of  bold  wonder,  to  feel 
The  hair  of  my  side,  and  to  lift  up  my  heel. 
And  questioned  my  face  with  wide  eyes  ;   but  when  under 
My  lids  he  saw  tears, —  for  I  wept  at  his  wonder. 
He  stroked  me,  and  uttered  such  kindliness  then. 
That  the  once  love  of  women,  the  friendship  of  men 


86  LYCUS,    THE    CEXTArR. 

In  past  sorrow,  no  kindness  e'er  came  like  a  kis3 

On  my  heart  in  its  desolate  day  such  as  this ; 

And  I  yearned  at  his  cheeks  in  my  love,  and  do\^^l  hent. 

And  lifted  him  up  in  my  arms  with  intent 

To  kiss  him, —  but  he,  cruel-kindly,  alas  I 

Held  out  to  my  lips  a  plucked  handful  of  grass ! 

Then  I  di'opt  him  in  horror,  but  felt  as  I  fled 

The  stone  he  indignantly  hurled  at  my  head. 

That  dissevered  my  ear,  but  I  felt  not,  whose  fate 

Was  to  meet  more  distress  in  his  love  than  his  hate  ! 

Thus  I  wandered,  companioned  of  grief  and  forlorn, 
Till  I  wished  for  that  land  where  my  being  was  born  ; 
But  what  was  that  land  with  its  love,  where  my  home 
Was  self-shut  against  me ;  for  why  should  I  come 
Like  an  after-distress  to  my  gi-ay-bearded  father, 
With  a  blight  to  the  last  of  his  sight  7  —  let  him  rather 
Lament  for  me  dead,  and  shed  tears  in  the  urn 
Where  I  was  not,  and  still  in  fond  memory  turn 
To  his  son  even  such  as  he  left  him.     0,  how 
Could  I  walk  with  the  youth  once  my  fellows,  but  now 
Like  gods  to  my  humbled  estate  ]  —  or  how  bear 
The  steeds  once  the  pride  of  my  eyes  and  the  care 
Of  my  hands  7     Then  I  turned  me  self-banished,  and  came 
Into  Thessaly  here,  where  I  met  with  the  same 
As  myself.     I  have  heard  how  they  met  by  a  sti'eam 
In  games,  and  were  suddenly  changed  by  a  scream 
That  made  wretches  of  many,  as  she  rolled  her  wild  eyes 
Against  heaven,  and  so  Aimished. —  The  gentle  and  wise 
Lose  their  thoughts  in  deep  studies,  and  others  their  ill 
In  the  mirth  of  mankind  where  they  mingle  them  still. 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT. 


Alas  !  that  breathing  Vanity  should  go 

Where  PriJe  is  Ijuriecl, —  like  its  very  ghost, 

Uprisen  from  the  naked  bones  below, 
In  novel  flesh,  clad  in  the  silent  Iwast 

Of  gaudy  silk  that  flutters  to  and  fro, 
Shedding  its  chilling  superstition  most 

On  young  and  ignorant  natures  —  as  it  wont 

To  haunt  the  peaceful  church-yard  of  Bedfont ! 

Each  Sabbath  morning,  at  the  hour  of  prayer, 
Behold  two  maidens,  up  the  quiet  green 

Shining,  far  distant,  in  the  summer  air 

That  flaunts  their  dewy  robes  and  breathes  between 

Their  downy  plumes, —  sailing  as  if  they  were 
Two  far-off  ships, —  until  they  brush  between 

The  church-yard's  humble  walls,  and  watch  and  wait 

On  either  side  of  the  wide-opened  gate. 

And  there  they  stand  —  with  haughty  necks  before 
God's  holy  house,  that  points  towards  the  skies  — 

Frowning  reluctant  duty  from  the  poor, 

And  tempting  homage  from  unthoughtful  eyes : 

And  Youth  looks  lingering  from  the  temple  door, 
Breathing  its  wishes  in  unfruitful  sighs. 

With  pouting  lips, —  forgetful  of  the  grace. 

Of  health,  and  smiles,  on  the  heart-conscious  face  j  — 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFOXT. 

Because  that  "Wealth,  which  has  no  bliss  beside, 
i\Iay  wear  the  happiness  of  rich  attire  ; 

And  those  two  sisters,  in  their  sillj  pride, 

May  change  the  soul's  warm  glances  for  the  fii'e 

Of  lifeless  diamonds ;  —  and  for  health  denied, — 
With  art.  that  blushes  at  itself,  inspire 

Their  languid  cheeks  —  and  flourish  in  a  glory 

That  has  no  life  in  Life,  nor  after-story. 

The  aged  priest  goes  shaking  his  gray  hair 
In  meekest  censuring,  and  turns  his  eye 

Earthward  in  grief,  and  heavenward  in  prayer, 
And  sighs,  and  clasps  his  hands,  and  passes  by. 

Good-hearted  man  !  what  sullen  soul  would  wear 
Thy  sorrow  for  a  garb,  and  constantly 

Put  on  thy  censure,  that  might  win  the  praise 

Of  one  so  gray  in  goodness  and  in  days  7 

Also  the  solemn  clerk  partakes  the  shame 
Of  this  ungodly  shine  of  human  pride, 

And  sadly  blends  his  reverence  and  blame 
In  one  grave  bow,  and  passes  with  a  stride 

Impatient :  —  many  a  red-hooded  dame 

Turns  her  pained  head,  but  not  her  glance,  aside 

From  wanton  dress,  and  marvels  o'er  ao^ain, 

That  Heaven  hath  no  wet  judgments  for  the  vain. 

"  I  have  a  lily  in  the  bloom  at  home," 

Quoth  one,  ''  and  by  the  blessed  Sabbath  day 

I  "11  pluck  my  lily  in  its  pride,  and  come 
And  read  a  lesson  upon  vain  array :  — 

And  when  stiff  silks  are  rustling  up,  and  some 
Give  place,  I'll  shake  it  in  proud  eyes  and  say  — 

Making  my  reverence, — '  Ladies,  an  you  please, 

King  Solomon  's  not  half  so  fine  as  these.'  " 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT.         89 

Then  her  meek  partner,  vfho  has  nearly  run 

His  earthly  course, — "  Nay,  Goody,  let  your  text 

Gro\v  in  the  garden. —  We  have  only  one  — 

Who  knows  that  these  dim  eyes  may  see  the  next  7 

Summer  -will  come  again,  and  summer  sun. 
And  lilies  too, —  but  I  were  sorely  vext 

To  mar  my  garden,  and  cut  short  the  blow 

Of  the  last  lily  I  may  live  to  grow." 

"  The  last !  "  quoth  she,  "  and  though  the  last  it  were  — 
Lo  !  those  two  wantons,  where  they  stand  so  proud, 

With  waving  plumes,  and  joAvels  in  their  hair, 
And  painted  cheeks,  like  Dagons  to  be  bowed 

And  curtseyed  too  !  —  last  Sabbath,  after  prayer, 
I  heard  the  little  Tomkins  ask  aloud 

If  they  were  angels  —  but  I  made  him  know 

God's  bright  ones  better,  with  a  bitter  blow !  " 

So  speaking  they  pursue  the  pebbly  walk 

That  leads  to  the  white  porch  the  Sunday  throng,  — 

Hand-coupled  urchins  in  restrained  talk, 

And  anxious  pedagogue  that  chastens  wrong. 

And  posied  church-warden  with  solemn  stalk. 
And  gold-bedizened  beadle  flames  along, 

And  gentle  peasant  clad  in  buff  and  green. 

Like  a  meek  cowslip  in  the  spring  serene  ; 

And  blushing  maiden,  —  modestly  arrayed 

In  spotless  white, —  still  conscious  of  the  glass  ; 

And  she,  the  lonely  widow,  that  hath  made 
A  sable  covenant  with  grief, —  alas  ! 

She  veils  her  tears  under  the  deep,  deep  shade. 
While  the  poor  kindly-hearted,  as  they  pass, 

Bend  to  unclouded  childhood,  and  caress 

Her  boy, —  so  rosy  !  — and  so  fiitherless  ! 
8* 


90  THE    TWO    PEACOCKS    OF    BEDFONT. 

Thus,  as  good  Christians  ought,  thej  all  draw  near 
The  fair  white  temple,  to  the  tirnelj  call 

Of  pleasant  bells  that  tremble  in  the  ear. — 

Now  the  last  frock,  and  scarlet  hood,  and  shawl, 

Fade  into  dusk,  in  the  dim  atniosphere 

Of  the  low  porch,  and  heaven  has  won  them  all, 

Saving  those  two,  that  turn  aside  and  pass. 

In  velvet  blossom,  where  all  flesh  is  grass. 

Ah  me  !  to  see  their  silken  manors  trailed 
In  purple  luxuries  —  with  restless  gold, — 

Flaunting  the  grass  where  widowhood  has  wailed 
In  blotted  black, —  over  the  heapj  mould 

Panting  wave-wantonly  !     They  never  quailed 
How  the  warm  vanity  abused  the  cold ; 

Nor  saw  the  solemn  faces  of  the  gone 

Sadly  uplooking  through  transparent  stone  : 

But  swept  their  dwellings  with  unquiet  light, 
Shocking  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead ; 

Where  gracious  natures  would  their  eyes  benight. 
Nor  wear  their  being  with  a  lip  too  red, 

Nor  move  too  rudely  in  the  summer  bright 
Of  sun,  but  put  staid  sorrow  in  their  tread, 

Meting  it  into  steps,  with  inward  breath, 

In  very  pity  to  bereaved  death. 

Now  in  the  church,  time-sobered  minds  resign 
To  solemn  prayer,  and  the  loud  chanted  hymn,  — 

With  glowing  picturings  of  joys  divine 

Painting  the  mist-light  where  the  roof  is  dim ; 

But  youth  looks  upward  to  the  window  shine, 
Warming  with  rose  and  purple  and  the  swim 

Of  gold,  as  if  thought-tinted  by  the  stains 

Of  gorgeous  light  through  many-colored  panes  ; 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT.         91 

Soiling  the  virgin  snow  wherein  God  hath 
Enrobed  his  angels, —  and  with  absent  eyes 

llearint^  of  heaven,  and  its  directed  path, 

Thoughtful  of  slippers, — and  the  glorious  skies 

Clouding  with  satin, —  till  the  preacher's  wrath 
Consumes  his  pity,  and  he  glows,  and  cries 

With  a  deep  voice  that  trembles  in  its  might, 

And  earnest  eyes  grown  eloquent  in  light : 

"0,  that  the  vacant  eye  would  learn  to  look 

On  very  beauty,  and  the  heart  embrace 
True  loveliness,  and  from  this  holy  book 

Drink  the  Avarm-breathing  tenderness  and  grace 
Of  love  indeed  !  0,  that  the  young  soul  took 

Its  vir'^in  passion  from  the  glorious  face 
Of  fair  religion,  and  addressed  its  strife 
To  wui  the  riches  of  eternal  life  ! 

"  Doth  the  vain  heart  love  glory  that  is  none, 

And  the  poor  excellence  of  vain  attire  1 
0  go,  and  drown  your  eyes  against  the  sun, 

The  visible  ruler  of  the  starry  quire, 
Till  boiling  gold  in  giddy  eddies  run, 

Dazzling  the  brain  with  orbs  of  living  fire ; 
And  the  famt  soul  down  darkens  into  night, 
And  dies  a  burning  martyrdom  to  light. 

''  0  go,  and  gaze, —  when  the  low  winds  of  even 
Breathe  hymns,  and  Nature's  many  forests  nod 

Their  gold-crowned  heads ;  and  the  rich  blooms  of  heaven 
Sun-ripened  give  their  blushes  up  to  God ; 

And  mountain-rocks  and  cloudy  steeps  are  riven 
By  founts  of  fire,  as  smitten  by  the  rod 

Of  heavenly  Moses, —  that  your  thirsty  sense 

May  quench  its  longings  of  magnificence  ! 


92  THE   TWO    PEACOCKS    OF    BEDFONT. 

"  Yet  suns  shall  perish  —  stars  shall  fade  awaj  — 
Daj  into  darkness  —  darkness  into  death  — 

Death  into  silence ;  the  warm  light  of  daj, 

The  blooms  of  summer,  the  rich  glowing  breath 

Of  even  —  all  shall  wither  and  decay, 

Like  the  frail  furniture  of  dreams  beneath 

The  touch  of  morn  —  or  bubbles  of  rich  djes 

That  break  and  vanish  in  the  aching  eyes." 

They  hear,  soul-blushing,  and  repentant  shed 

Unwholesome  thoughts  in  wholesome  tears,  and  pour 

Their  sin  to  earth, —  and  with  low  drooping  head 
Receive  the  solemn  blessing,  and  implore 

Its  grace  —  then  soberly,  with  chastened  tread, 
They  meekly  press  towards  the  gusty  door, 

With  humbled  eyes  that  go  to  graze  upon 

The  lowly  grass  —  like  him  of  Babylon. 

The  lowly  grass  !  —  0,  water-constant  mind ! 

Fast-ebbing  holiness  !  —  soon-fading  grace 
Of  serious  thought,  as  if  the  gushing  v/ind 

Through  the  low  porch  had  washed  it  from  the  face 
Forever  !  —  How  they  lift  their  eyes  to  find 

Old  vanities  !  —  Pride  wins  the  very  place 
Of  meekness,  like  a  bird,  and  flutters  now 
With  idle  wings  on  the  curl-conscious  brow  ! 

And,  lo  !  with  eager  looks  they  seek  the  way 

Of  old  temptation  at  the  lowly  gate ; 
To  feast  on  feathers,  and  on  vain  array, 

And  painted  cheeks,  and  the  rich  glistering  state 
Of  jewel-sprinkled  locks. —  But  where  are  they. 

The  graceless  haughty  ones  that  used  to  wait 
With  lofty  neck,  and  nods,  and  stiffened  eye  7  — ■ 
None  challenge  the  old  homage  bending  by. 


THE   TWO   PEACOCKS   OF   BEDFONT.  93 

In  vain  they  look  for  the  ungracious  bloom 
Of  rich  apparel  where  it  glowed  before, — 

For  vanity  has  faded  all  to  gloom, 

And  lofty  Pride  has  stiffened  to  the  core, 

For  impious  Life  to  tremble  at  its  doom, — 
Set  for  a  warning  token  evermore, 

"Whereon,  as  now,  the  giddy  and  the  wise 

Shall  gaze  with  lifted  hands  and  wondering  eyes. 

The  aged  priest  goes  on  each  Sabbath  morn, 
But  shakes  not  sorrow  under  his  gray  hau* ; 

The  solemn  clerk  goes  lavendered  and  shorn. 
Nor  stoops  his  back  to  the  ungodly  pair :  — 

And  ancient  lips,  that  puckered  up  in  scorn. 
Go  smoothly  breathing  to  the  house  of  prayer ; 

And  in  the  garden-plot,  from  day  to  day. 

The  lily  blooms  its  long  white  life  away. 

And  where  two  haughty  maidens  used  to  be, 

In  pride  of  plume,  where  plumy  Death  had  trod, 

Trailing  their  gorgeous  velvets  wantonly. 
Most  unmeet  pall,  over  the  holy  sod ;  — 

There,  gentle  stranger,  thou  may'st  only  see 

Two  sombre  Peacocks. Age,  with  sapient  nod 

Marking  the  spot,  still  tarries  to  declare 

How  they  once  lived,  and  wherefore  they  are  there. 


THE    TWO     SWANS 


A    FAIRY    TALE. 


Immortal  Imogen,  crowned  queen  above 
The  lilies  of  thy  sex,  vouchsafe  to  hear 
A  fairy  dream  in  honor  of  true  love  — 
True  above  ills,  and  frailty,  and  all  fear  — 
Perchance  a  shadow  of  his  own  career 
Whose  youth  was  darkly  prisoned  and  long  twined 
By  serpent-sorrow,  till  white  Love  drew  near, 
And  sweetly  sang  him  free,  and  round  his  mind 
A  bright  horizon  threw,  wherein  no  grief  may  wind. 

I  saw  a  tower  builded  on  a  lake. 
Mocked  by  its  inverse  shadow,  dark  and  deep  — 
That  seemed  a  still  intenser  night  to  make. 
Wherein  the  quiet  waters  sunk  to  sleep, — 
And.  whatsoe'er  was  prisoned  in  that  keep, 
A  monstrous  Snake  was  warden  :  —  round  and  round 
In  sable  ringlets  I  beheld  him  creep 
Blackest  amid  black  shadows  to  the  ground, 
Whilst  his  enormous  head  the  topmost  turret  crowned. 

From  whence  he  shot  fierce  light  against  the  stars, 
Making  the  pale  moon  paler  with  affright ; 
And  with  his  ruby  eye  out-threatened  Mars  — 
That  blazed  in  the  mid-heavens,  hot  and  bright  — 


THE   TWO    SWANS.  96 

Nor  slept,  nor  winked,  but  with  a  steadfast  spite 
"Watched  their  wan  looks  and  tremblings  in  the  skies : 
And.  that  he  might  not  slumber  in  the  night, 
The  curtain-lids  were  plucked  from  his  large  eyes, 
So  he  might  never  drowse,  but  watch  his  secret  prize. 

Prince  or  princess  in  dismal  durance  pent, 
Victims  of  old  Enchantment's  love  or  hate. 
Their  lives  must  all  in  painful  sighs  be  spent, 
"Watching  the  lonely  watei-s  soon  and  late. 
And  clouds  that  pass  and  leave  them  to  their  Me, 
Or  company  their  grief  with  heavy  tears  :  — 
Meanwhile  that  Hope  can  spy  no  golden  gate 
For  sweet  escapement,  but  in  darksome  fears 
They  weep  and  pine  away  as  if  immortal  years. 

No  gentle  bird  with  gold  upon  its  wing 
"Will  perch  upon  the  grate  —  the  gentle  bird 
Is  safe  in  leafy  dell,  and  will  not  bring 
Freedom's  sweet  key-note  and  commission  word 
Learned  of  a  fairy's  lips,  for  pity  stirred  — 
Lest  while  he  trembling  sings,  untimely  guest ! 
"Watched  by  that  cruel  Snake  and  darkly  heard, 
He  leave  a  widow  on  her  lonely  nest, 
To  press  in  silent  grief  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 

No  sallant  knight,  adventurous,  in  his  bark. 
"VSnil  seek  the  fruitful  perils  of  the  place. 
To  rouse  with  dipping  oar  the  waters  dark 
That  bear  the  serpent-image  on  their  face. 
And  Love,  brave  Love  !  though  he  attempt  the  base. 
Nerved  to  his  loyal  death,  he  may  not  win 
His  captive  lady  from  the  strict  embrace 
Of  that  foul  Serpent,  clasping  her  within 
His  sable  folds  —  like  Eve  enthralled  by  the  old  Sin. 


96  THE    TWO    SWANS. 

But  there  is  none  —  no  knight  in  panoply, 
Nor  Love,  intrenched  in  his  strong  steelj  coat : 
No  Httle  speck  —  no  sail  —  no  helper  nigh, 
No  sign  —  no  whispering  —  no  plash  of  boat :  — 
The  distant  shores  show  dimlj  and  remote. 
Made  of  a  deeper  mist, —  serene  and  gray, — 
And  slow  and  mute  the  cloudy  shadows  float 
Over  the  gloomy  wave,  and  pass  away, 
Chased  by  the  silver  beams  that  on  their  marges  play. 

And  bright  and  silvery  the  willows  sleep 
Over  the  shady  verge  —  no  mad  winds  tease 
Their  hoary  heads  ;  but  quietly  they  weep 
There  sprinkling  leaves  —  half  fountains  and  half  trees 
There  lilies  be  —  and  fairer  than  all  these, 
A  solitary  Swan  her  breast  of  snow 
Launches  against  the  wave  that  seems  to  freeze 
Into  a  chaste  reflection,  still  below 
Twin-shadow  of  herself  wherever  she  may  go. 

And  forth  she  paddles  in  the  very  noon 
Of  solemn  midnight  like  an  elfin  thing, 
Charmed  into  being  by  the  argent  moon  — 
Whose  silver  light  for  love  of  her  fair  wino- 
Goes  with  her  in  the  shade,  still  worshipping 
Her  dainty  plumage  :  —  all  around  her  grew 
A  radiant  circlet,  like  a  fairy  ring  ; 
And  all  behind,  a  tiny  little  clue 
Of  light,  to  guide  her  back  across  the  waters  blue. 

And  sure  she  is  no  meaner  than  a  fay, 
Redeemed  from  sleepy  death,  for  beauty's  sake, 
By  old  ordainment :  —  silent  as  she  lay. 
Touched  by  a  moonlight  wand  I  saw  her  wake, 


TUE    TWO    SWANS.  97 

And  cut  her  leafy  slough,  and  so  forsake 
The  verdant  prison  of  her  lily  peers, 
That  slept  amidst  the  stars  upon  the  lake  — 
A  breathing  shape  —  restored  to  human  fears, 
And  new-born  love  and  grief — self-conscious  of  her  tears. 

And  now  she  clasps  her  wings  around  her  heart, 
And  near  that  lonelj  isle  begins  to  glide 
Pale  as  her  fears,  and  ofttimes  with  a  start 
Turns  her  impatient  head  from  side  to  side 
In  universal  teiTors  —  all  too  wide 
To  watch ;  and  often  to  that  mai-ble  keep 
Upturns  her  pearly  eyes,  as  if  she  spied 
Some  foe,  and  crouches  in  the  shadows  steep 
That  in  the  gloomy  wave  go  diving  fathoms  deep. 

And  well  she  may,  to  spy  that  fearfnl  thing 
All  down  the  dusky  walls  in  circlets  wound ! 
Alas  !  for  what  rare  prize,  with  many  a  ring 
Girding  the  marble  casket  round  and  round  ? 
His  folded  tail,  lost  in  the  gloom  profound, 
Terribly  darkeneth  the  rocky  base  ; 
But  on  the  top  his  monstrous  head  is  crowned 
With  prickly  spears,  and  on  his  doubtful  face 
Gleam  his  unwearied  eyes,  red  watchers  of  the  place. 

Alas  !  of  the  hot  fires  that  nightly  fall, 
No  one  will  scorch  him  in  those  orbs  of  spite, 
So  he  may  never  see  beneath  the  wall 
That  timid  little  creature,  all  too  bright, 
That  stretches  her  fair  neck,  slender  and  white. 
Invoking  the  pale  moon,  and  vainly  tries 
Her  throbbing  throat,  as  if  to  charm  the  night 
With  song  —  but,  hush  —  it  perishes  in  sighs. 
And  there  will  be  no  dirge,  sad  swelling  though  she  dies ! 
9 


98  THE  TWO   SWANS. 

She  droops  —  she  sinks  —  she  leans  upon  the  lake. 
Fainting  again  into  a  lifeless  flower  ; 
But  soon  the  chillj  springs  anoint  and  wake 
Her  spirit  from  its  death,  and  with  new  power 
She  sheds  her  stifled  sorrows  in  a  shower 
Of  tender  song,  timed  to  her  falling  tears  — 
That  wins  the  shady  summit  of  that  tower, 
-    And,  trembling  all  the  sweeter  for  its  fears, 
Fills  with  imploring  moan  that  cruel  monster's  ears. 

And,  lo  !  the  scaly  beast  is  all  deprest. 
Subdued  like  Argus  by  the  might  of  sound  — 
What  time  Apollo  his  sweet  lute  addrest 
To  magic  converse  Avith  the  air,  and  bound 
The  many  monster  eyes,  all  slumber-drowned  :  — 
So  on  the  turret-top  that  watchful  snake 
Pillows  his  giant  head,  and  lists  profound, 
As  if  his  wrathful  spite  would  never  wake, 
Charmed  into  sudden  sleep  for  Love  and  Beauty's  sake ! 

His  prickly  crest  lies  prone  upon  his  crown, 
And  thirsty  lip  from  lip  disparted  flies, 
To  drink  that  dainty  flood  of  music  down  — 
His  scaly  throat  is  big  with  pent-up  sighs  — 
And  whilst  his  hollow  ear  entranced  lies, 
His  looks  for  envy  of  the  charmed  sense 
Are  fain  to  listen,  till  his  steadfast  eyes, 
Stung  into  pain  by  their  own  impotence. 
Distil  enormous  tears  into  the  lake  immense. 

0,  tuneful  Swan  !     0,  melancholy  bird ! 

Sweet  was  that  midnight  miracle. of  song, 

Rich  with  ripe  sorrow,  needful  of  no  word 

To  tell  of  pain,  and  love,  and  love's  deep  wrong  — 


THE    TWO    SWANS.  99 

Hinting  a  piteous  tale  —  perchance  how  long 
Thy  unknown  tears  were  mingled  with  the  lake, 
What  time  disguised  thy  leafy  mates  among  — 
And  no  eye  knew  what  human  love  and  ache 
Dwelt  in  those  dewy  leaves,  and  heart  so  nigh  to  brenk. 

Therefore  no  poet  will  ungently  touch 
The  water-lily,  on  whose  eyelids  dew 
Trembles  like  tears ;  but  ever  hold  it  such 
As  human  pain  may  wander  through  and  through, 
Turning  the  pale  leaf  paler  in  its  hue  — - 
Wherein  life  dwells,  transfigured,  not  entombed, 
By  magic  spells.     Alas  !  who  ever  knew 
Sorrow  in  all  its  shapes,  leafy  and  plumed, 
Or  in  gross  husks  of  brutes  eternally  inhumed  ? 

And  now  the  wino;ed  soncr  has  scaled  the  height 
Of  that  dark  dwelling,  builded  for  despair, 
And  soon  a  little  casement  flashino-  bright 
Widens  self-opened  into  the  cool  air  — 
That  music  like  a  bird  may  enter  there 
And  soothe  the  captive  in  his  stony  cage ; 
For  there  is  naught  of  grief,  or  painful  care, 
But  plaintive  song  may  happily  engage 
Fi'om  sense  of  its  own  ill,  and  tenderly  assuage. 

And  forth  into  the  light,  small  and  remote, 
A  creature,  like  the  fair  son  of  a  king. 
Draws  to  the  lattice  in  his  jewelled  coat 
Against  the  silver  moonlight  glistening. 
And  leans  upon  his  white  hand  listening 
To  that  sweet  music  that  with  tenderer  tone 
Salutes  him,  wt)ndering  ^hat  kindly  thing 
Is  come  to  soothe  him  with  so  tuneful  moan, 
Singing  beneath  the  walls  as  if  for  him  alone ! 


100  THE   TWO    SWAXS. 

And  while  he  listens,  the  mysterious  song, 
Woven  with  timid  particles  of  speech, 
Twines  into  passionate  words  that  grieve  along 
The  melancholy  notes,  and  softly  teach 
The  secrets  of  true  love, —  that  trembling  reach 
His  earnest  ear,  and  through  the  shadows  dun 
He  missions  like  replies,  and  each  to  each 
Their  silver  voices  mingle  into  one. 
Like  blended  streams  that  make  one  music  as  they  run 

"'  Ah  !  Love,  my  hope  is  swooning  in  my  heart, — 
Ay,  sweet,  my  cage  is  strong  and  hung  full  high  — 
Alas  !   our  lips  are  held  so  far  apart. 
Thy  words  come  faint,  they  have  so  far  to  fly !  — 
K  I  may  only  shun  that  serpent  eye, — 
Ah  me  !  that  serpent  eye  doth  never  sleep :  — 
Then,  nearer  thee.  Love's  martyr,  I  will  die  !  — 
Alas,  alas  !  that  word  has  made  me  weep ! 
For  Pity's  sake  remain  safe  in  thy  marble  keep ! 

"  My  marble  keep  !  it  is  my  marble  tomb  — 
Nay,  sweet !  but  thou  hast  there  thy  living  breath  -  - 
Aye  to  expend  in  sighs  for  this  hard  doom ;  — 
But  I  will  come  to  thee  and  sing  beneath, 
And  nightly  so  beguile  this  serpent  wreath ;  — 
Nay,  I  will  find  a  path  from  these  despairs. 
Ah.  needs  then  thou  must  tread  the  back  of  death. 
Making  his  stony  ribs  thy  stony  stairs. — 
Behold  his  ruby  eye,  how  fearfully  it  glares  !  " 

Full  sudden  at  these  words  the  princely  youth 
Leaps  on  the  scaly  back  that  slumbers,  still 
Unconscious  of  his  foot,  yet  not  for  ruth, 
But  numbed  to  dulness  by  the  fairy  skill 


THE   TWO    SWANS.  101 

Of  that  sweet  music,  (all  more  wild  and  shrill 
For  intense  fear,)  that  charmed  him  as  he  lay  — 
Meanwhile  the  lover  nerves  his  desperate  will, 
Held  some  short  throbs  hj  natural  dismay, 
Then  down,  down  the  serpent-track  begins  his  darksome  way 

Now  dimly  seen  —  now  toiling  out  of  sight. 
Eclipsed  and  covered  by  the  envious  wall : 
Now  fair  and  spangled  in  the  sudden  light, 
And  clinging  with  wide  arms  for  fear  of  fall ; 
Now  dark  and  sheltered  by  a  kindly  pall 
Of  dusky  shadow  from  his  wakeful  foe  ; 
Slowly  he  winds  adown  —  dimly  and  small, 
"U^atched  by  the  gentle  swan  that  sings  below, 
Her  hope  increasing,  still,  the  larger  he  doth  grow. 

But  nine  times  nine  the  serpent  folds  embrace 
The  marble  walls  about  —  which  he  must  tread 
Before  his  -anxious  foot  may  touch  the  base : 
Long  is  the  dreary  path,  and  must  be  sped  ! 
But  Love,  that  holds  the  mastery  of  di-ead, 
Braces  his  spirit,  and  with  constant  toil 
He  wins  his  way,  and  now,  with  arms  outspread, 
Impatient  plunges  from  the  last  long  coil : 
So  may  all  gentle  Love  ungentle  Malice  foil. 

The  song  is  hushed,  the  charm  is  all  complete, 
And  two  fair  Swans  are  swimming  on  the  lake : 
But  scarce  their  tender  bills  have  time  to  meet. 
When  fiercely  drops  adown  that  cruel  Snake  — 
His  steely  scales  a  fearful  rustling  make, 
Like  autumn  leaves  that  tremble  and  foretell 
The  sable  storm :  —  the  plumy  lovers  quake  — 
And  feel  the  troubled  waters  pant  and  swell, 
Heaved  by  the  giant  bulk  of  their  pursuer  fell. 
9* 


102  THE   TWO   SWANS. 

His  jaws,  wide  yawning  like  the  gates  of  Death, 
Hiss  horrible  pursuit  —  his  red  eyes  glare 
The  waters  into  blood  —  his  eager  breath 
Grows  hot  upon  their  plumes  :  —  now,  minstrel  fair  ! 
She  drops  her  ring  into  the  waves,  and  there 
It  widens  all  around,  a  fairy  ring 
Wrought  of  the  silver  light  —  the  fearful  pair 
Swim  in  the  very  midst,  and  pant  and  cling 
The  closer  for  their  fears,  and  tremble  wing  to  wing. 

Bending  their  course  over  the  pale  gray  lake, 
Against  the  pallid  East,  wherein  light  played 
In  tender  flushes,  still  the  baffled  Snake 
Circled  them  round  continually,  and  bayed 
Hoarsely  and  loud,  forbidden  to  invade 
The  sanctuary  ring  —  his  sahle  mail 
Rolled  darkly  through  the  flood,  and  writhed  and  made 
A  shining  track  over  the  waters  pale, 
Lashed  into  boiling  foam  by  his  enormous  tail. 

And  so  they  sailed  into  the  distance  dim. 
Into  the  very  distance  —  small  and  white, 
Like  snowy  blossoms  of  the  spring  that  swim 
Over  the  brooklets  —  followed  by  the  spite 
Of  that  huge  Serpent,  that  with  wild  affright 
Worried  them  on  their  course,  and  sore  annoy, 
Till  on  the  grassy  marge  I  saw  them  'light, 
And  change,  anon,  a  gentle  girl  and  boy. 
Locked  in  embrace  of  sweet  unutterable  joy  I 

Then  came  the  jSIorn,  and  with  her  pearly  showers 
Wept  on  them,  like  a  mother,  in  whose  eyes 
Teal's  are  no  grief;  and  from  his  rosy  bowers 
The  Oriental  sun  began  to  rise. 


THE    TWO    SWANS.  103 

Chasing  the  darksome  shadows  from  the  skies  ; 
Wherewith  that  sable  Sei-j^ent  far  awaj 
Fled,  like  a  part  of  night  —  delicious  sighs 
From  waking  bosoms  purified  the  day, 
And  little  birds  were  singing  sweetly  from  each  spray. 


\ 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM 


'T  WAS  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twentj  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school : 
There  were  some  that  i-an,  and  some  that  leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouched  by  sin ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about. 

And  shouted  as  they  ran, — 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man  ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease : 

So  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.         105 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turned  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside, 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide  : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome. 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strained  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp  : 
"  0,  God  !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  !  " 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took, — 
Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 

And  past  a  shady  nook, — 
And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book  ! 

"  My  gentle  lad,  what  is 't  you  read  — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable?" 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance, — 

"  It  is  '  The  Death  of  Abel.'  " 

The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides. 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain, — 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place. 

Then  slowly  back  again ; 
And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talked  with  him  of  Cain ; 


106         THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 
Whose  deeds  tradition  saves ; 

Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 
And  hid  in  sudden  airaves ; 

Of  horrid  stabs  in  groves  forlorn, 
And  murders  done  in  caves ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 
Shriek  upward  from  the  sod, — 

Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod ; 

And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 
Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, — 
^  With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  • 

For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 
Its  everlasting  stain ! 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme, — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe, — 

Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why  7  Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  di-eam  ! 

"  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong  — 

A  feeble  man  and  old ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field, — 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold : 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die. 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.         107 

"  Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife, — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  : 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 
And  yet  I  feared  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill ! 

"  And,  lo  !  the  universal  air 

Seemed  lit  with  ghastly  flame  ;  — 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame : 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 
And  called  upon  his  name  ! 

"  0,  God  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 

Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 
But  when  I  touched  the  lifeless  clay. 

The  blood  gushed  out  amain  ! 
For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

"My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  tlie  devil's  price  : 
A  dozen  times  I  groaned ;  the  dead 

Had  never  groaned  but  twice  ! 


108         THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice  —  the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  :  — 

'  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead  r 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight !  ' 

'  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 
And  cast  it  in  a  stream, — 

A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme :  — , 

My  gentle  Boy,  remember  this  .1" 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge, 
And  vanished  in  the  pool ; 

Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 
And  washed  my  forehead  cool. 

And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 
That  evening,  in  the  school. 

"  0,  Heaven  !  to  think  of  their  white  souls, 
And  mine  so  black  and  grim ! 

I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 
Nor  join  in  evening  hymn  : 

Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seemed, 
'Mid  holy  cherubim ! 

"  And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 
And  each  calm  pillow  spread ; 

But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain 
That  lighted  me  to  bed ; 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 
With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep ; 

My  fevered  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 
But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep  : 

For  Sin  had  rendered  unto  her 
The  keys  of  hell  to  keep  ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 
That  racked  me  all  the  time ; 

A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 
Fierce  impulse  unto  crime ! 

■  "  One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ; 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave, — 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  Dead  Man  in  his  grave  I 

"  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, 
And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye ; 
And  I  saw  the  Dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  diy. 

"  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing ; 

But  I  never  marked  its  morning  flight, 
I  never  heard  it  sing  : 

For  I  was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 
10 


109 


110         THE  DREAM  OF  EUGEXE  AKAM. 

"  "With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 
I  took  him  up  and  ran  ;  — 

There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 
Before  the  day  began : 

In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 
I  hid  the  murdered  man  ! 

"  And  all  that  daj  I  read  in  school. 
But  my  thought  was  other  where  ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there : 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face. 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep  : 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

"  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  Sprite, 
Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 

Ay,  though  he  "s  buried  in  a  cave, 
And  trodden  down  with  stones, 

And  years  have  rotted  ofi"  his  flesh, — 
The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

"  0,  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.         Ill 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow ; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul. — 

It  stands  hefore  me  now  !  " 
The  fearful  Boy  looked  up,  and  saw 

Huge  di-ops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin  eyelids  kissed, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Tlu'ough  the  cold  and  heavy  mist : 
And  Eugene  Aram  walked  betwe-m, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 


THE     ELM     TREE 


A   DRK.\.M    IN    THE   lYOODS. 


"And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt. 
Finds  tonjnies  in  trees."  As  You  Like  It. 


T  WAS  in  a  shaxiy  avenue, 
"WTiere  lofty  elms  abound  — 
And  from  a  tree 
There  came  to  me 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead. 
And  sometimes  underground. 

Amongst  the  leaves  it  seemed  to  sigh, 

Amid  the  boughs  to  moan  ; 
It  muttered  in  the  stem,  and  then 

The  roots  took  up  the  tone ; 
As  if  beneath  the  dewy  grass 

The  dead  began  to  groan. 

No  breeze  there  was  to  stir  the  leaves : 
No  bolts  that  tempests  launch, 

To  rend  the  trunk  or  rugged  bark ; 
No  gale  to  bend  the  branch ; 

No  quake  of  earth  to  heave  the  roots, 
That  stood  so  stiff  and  stanch. 


THE   ELM   TREE.  113 

No  bird  was  preening  up  aloft. 

To  rustle  with  its  wing ; 
No  squirrel,  in  its  sport  or  fear, 
From  bough  to  bough  to  spring  ; 
The  solid  bole 
Had  ne'er  a  hole 
To  hide  a  living  thing  ! 

No  scooping  hollow  cell  to  lodge 
A  furtive  beast  or  fowl, 
The  martin,  bat. 
Or  forest  cat 
That  nightly  loves  to  prowl. 
Nor  ivy  nook  so  apt  to  shroud 
The  moping,  snoring  owl. 

But  still  the  sound  was  in  my  ear, 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground  — 
'T  was  in  a  shady  avenue 

Where  lofty  elms  abound. 

0,  hath  the  Dryad  still  a  tongue 

In  this  ungenial  clime? 
Have  sylvan  spirits  still  a  voice 

As  in  the  classic  prime  — 
To  make  the  forest  voluble. 

As  in  the  olden  time  1 

The  olden  time  is  dead  and  gone  ; 

Its  years  have  filled  their  sum  — 
And  even  in  Greece  —  her  native  Greece  — 

The  sylvan  nymph  is  dumb  — 
From  ash,  and  beech,  and  aged  oak. 

No  classic  whispers  come. 
10* 


114  THE   ELM   TREE. 

From  poplar,  pine,  and  drooping  birch, 
And  fragrant  linden  trees ; 
No  living  sound 
E'er  hovers  round, 
Unless  the  vagrant  breeze, 
The  music  of  the  merry  bird, 
Or  hum  of  busy  bees. 

But  busy  bees  forsake  the  elm 
That  bears  no  bloom  aloft  — 

The  finch  was  in  the  hawthorn-bush, 
The  blackbird  in  the  croft ; 

And  among  the  firs  the  brooding  dove, 
That  else  might  murmur  soft. 

Yet  still  I  heard  that  solemn  sound, 
And  sad  it  was  to  boot, 

From  every  overhanging  bough, 
And  each  minuter  shoot ; 

From  rugged  trunk  and  mossy  rind, 
And  from  the  twisted  root. 

From  these,* —  a  melancholy  moan ; 

From  those, —  a  dreary  sigh  ; 
As  if  the  boughs  were  wintry  bare, 

And  wild  winds  sweeping  by  — 
Whereas  the  smallest  fleecy  cloud 

Was  steadfast  in  the  sky. 

No  sign  or  touch  of  stirring  air 
Could  either  sense  observe  — 

The  zephyr  had  not  breath  enough 
The  thistle-down  to  swerve, 

Or  force  the  filmy  gossamers 
To  take  another  curve. 


THE    ELM   TREE. 

In  still  and  silent  slumber  hushed 

All  Nature  seemed  to  be  : 
From  heaven  above,  or  earth  beneath. 

No  whisper  came  to  me  — 
Except  the  solemn  sound  and  sad 

From  that  Mysterious  Tree  ! 

A  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  sound, 

As  is  that  dreamy  roar 
When  distant  billows  boil  and  bound 

Along  a  shingly  shore  — 
But  the  ocean  brim  was  far  aloof, 

A  hundred  miles  or  more. 

No  murmur  of  the  gusty  sea,- 

No  tumult  of  the  beach, 
However  they  may  foam  and  fret, 

The  bounded  sense  could  reach  — 
INIethought  the  trees  in  mystic  tongue 

Were  talking  each  to  each  !  — 

Mayhap,  rehearsing  ancient  tales 
Of  greenwood  love  or  guilt, 
Of  whispered  vows 
Beneath  their  boughs ; 
Or  blood  obscurely  spilt ; 
Or  of  that  near-hand  mansion-house 
A  royal  Tudor  built. 

Perchance,  of  booty  won  or  shared 
Beneath  the  starry  cope  — 

Or  where  the  suicidal  wretch 
Hung  up  the  fatal  rope ; 

Or  Beauty  kept  an  evil  tryste, 
Ensnared  by  Love  and  Hope. 


116 


116  THE   ELM   THEE. 

Of  graves,  perchance,  untimely  scooped 

At  midnight  dark  and  dank  — 
And  what  is  underneath  the  sod 
Whereon  the  grass  is  rank  — 
Of  old  intrigues, 
And  privy  leagues, 
Tradition  leaves  in  blank. 

Of  traitor  lips  that  muttered  plots  — 
Of  kin  who  fought  and  fell  — 

God  knows  the  undiscovered  schemes, 
The  arts  and  acts  of  hell. 

Performed  long  generations  since, 
K  trees  had  tongues  to  tell ! 

With  wary  eyes,  and  ears  alert, 

As  one  who  walks  afraid, 
I  wandered  down  the  dappled  path 

Of  mingled  light  and  shade  — 
How  sweetly  gleamed  that  arch  of  blue 

Beyond  the  green  arcade  ! 

How  cheerly  shone  the  glimpse  of  heaven 

Beyond  that  verdant  aisle  ! 

All  overarched  with  lofty  elms, 

That  quenched  the  light,  the  while. 

As  dim  and  chill 

As  serves  to  fill 

Some  old  cathedral  pile  ! 

And  many  a  gnarled  trunk  was  there, 

That  ages  long  had  stood. 
Till  Time  had  wrought  them  into  shapes 

Like  Pan's  fantastic  brood ; 
Or  still  more  foul  and  hideous  forms 

That  pagans  carve  in  wood ! 


THE    ELM   TREE. 

A  crouching  Satyi-  lurking  here  — 
And  there  a  Goblin  grim  — 

As  staring  full  of  demon  life 
As  Gothic  sculptor's  whim  — 

A  marvel  it  had  scarcely  been 
To  hear  a  voice  from  him  ! 

Some  whisper  from  that  horrid  mouth 
Of  strange,  unearthly  tone  ; 

Or  wild  infernal  laugh,  to  chill 
One's  marrow  in  the  bone. 

5ut  no it  grins  like  rigid  Death, 

And  silent  as  a  stone  ! 

As  silent  as  its  fellows  be, 

For  all  is  mute  with  them  — 

The  branch  that  climbs  the  leafy  roof - 

The  rough  and  mossy  stem  — 

The  crooked  root, 

And  tender  shoot, 

Where  hangs  the  dewy  gem. 

One  mystic  tree  alone  there  is. 
Of  sad  and  solemn  sound  — 

That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground  — 

In  all  that  shady  avenue. 
Where  lofty  elms  abound. 


in 


PART  n. 

The  scene  is  changed  !     No  green  arcade. 
No  trees  all  ranged  a-row  — 


il8  THE  ELM  TREE. 

But  scattered  like  a  beaten  host, 
Dispersing  to  and  fro ; 

With  here  and  there  a  sjlvan  corse, 
That  fell  before  tlie  fJe. 

The  foe  that  down  in  yonder  dell 

Pursues  his  dailj  toil ; 
As  witness  many  a  prostrate  trunk, 

Bereft  of  leafy  spoil, 
Hard  by  its  wooden  stump,  whereon 

The  adder  loves  to  coil. 

Alone  he  works  —  his  ringing  blows 
Have  banished  bh-d  and  beast ; 

The  hind  and  fawn  have  cantered  off 
A  hundi'ed  yards  at  least  ; 

And  on  the  maple's  lofty  top 
The  linnet's  song  has  ceased. 

No  eye  his  labor  overlooks. 
Or  when  he  takes  his  rest  ; 

Except  the  timid  thrush  that  peeps 
Above  her  secret  nest, 

Eorbid  by  love  to  leave  the  young 
Beneath  her  speckled  breast. 

The  woodman's  heart  is  in  his  work. 

His  axe  is  sharp  and  good : 

With  sturdy  arm  and  steady  aim 

He  smites  the  gaping  wood ; 

From  distant  rocks 

His  lusty  knocks 

Reecho  many  a  rood. 


THE    ELM    TREE. 


119 


His  axe  is  keen,  his  arm  is  strong  ; 

The  muscles  serve  him  well ; 
Ilis  years  have  reached  an  extra  span, 

The  number  none  can  tell ; 
But  still  his  life-long  task  has  beer 

The  timber  tree  to  fell. 

Through  summer's  parching  sultriness, 
And  "winter's  freezing  cold. 
From  sapling  youth 
To  virile  growth, 
And  acre's  ridd  mould, 
His  energetic  axe  hath  rung 
"Within  that  forest  old. 

Aloft,  upon  his  poising  steel 
The  vivid  sunbeams  glance  — 

About  his  head  and  round  his  feet 
The  forest  shadows  dance  ; 

And  bounding  from  his  russet  coat 
The  aeorn  drops  askance. 

His  face  is  like  a  Druid's  face, 

With  wi'inkles  furrowed  deep, 
And  tanned  by  scorching  suns  as  brown 

As  corn  that  "s  ripe  to  reap  ; 
But  the  hair  on  brow,  and  cheek,  and  chin, 

Is  white  as  wool  of  sheep. 

His  frame  is  like  a  giant's  frame  ; 

His  leo;s  are  loniz;  and  stark  : 
His  arms  like  limbs  of  knotted  yew  ; 
His  hands  like  rugged  bark ; 
So  he  felleth  still 
"With  right  good  will, 
As  if  to  build  an  ark  ! 


120  THE   ELM    TKEE. 

0  !  well  within  his  fatal  path 

The  fearful  tree  might  quake 
Through  every  fibre,  twig,  and  leaf, 
With  aspen  tremor  shake  ; 
Through  trunk  and  root, 
And  branch  and  shoot, 
A  low  complaining  make  ! 

•  0  !  well  to  him  the  tree  might  breathe 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 

A  sigh  that  murmured  overhead, 
And  groans  from  underground  ; 

As  in  that  shady  avenue 
Where  lofty  elms  abound  ! 

But  calm  and  mute  the  maple  stands, 
The  plane,  the  ash,  the  fir, 

The  elm,  the  beech,  the  drooping  birch, 
Without  the  least  demur  ; 

And  e"en  the  aspen's  hoary  leaf 
Makes  no  unusual  stir. 

The  pines  —  those  old  gigantic  pines, 
That  writhe  —  recalling  soon 

The  famous  human  group  that  writhes 
With  snakes  in  wild  festoon  — 

In  ramous  wrestlings  interlaced 
A  forest  Laocoon  — 

Like  Titans  of  primeval  girth 

By  tortures  overcome, 
Their  brown  enormous  limbs  they  twine, 

Bedewed  with  tears  of  gum  — 
Fierce  agonies  that  ought  to  yell, 

But,  like  the  marble,  dumb. 


THE   ELM  TREE. 

Nay,  yonder  blasted  elm  that  stands 

So  like  a  man  of  sin, 
Who,  frantic,  flings  his  arms  abroad 

To  feel  the  worm  within  — 
For  all  that  gesture,  so  intense, 

It  makes  no  sort  of  din  ! 

An  universal  silence  reigns 

In  rugged  bark  or  peel. 
Except  that  very  trunk  which  rings 

Beneath  the  biting  steel  — 
Meanwhile  the  woodman  plies  his  axe 

With  unrelenting  zeal ! 

No  rustic  song  is  on  his  tongue, 

No  whistle  on  his  lips  ; 
But  with  a  quiet  thoughtfulness 

His  trusty  tool  he  grips, 
And,  stroke  on  stroke,  keeps  hacking  out 

The  bright  and  flying  chips. 

Stroke  after  stroke,  with  frequent  dint 

He  spreads  the  fatal  gash  ; 
Till,  lo  !  the  remnant  fibres  rend, 

With  harsh  and  sudden  crash, 
And  on  the  dull-resounding  turf 

The  jarring  branches  lash  ! 

0  !  now  the  forest  trees  may  sigh, 

The  ash,  the  poplar  tall. 
The  elm,  the  birch,  the  drooping  beech, 
The  aspens  —  one  and  all. 
With  solemn  groan 
And  hollow  moan 
Lament  a  comrade's  fall ! 
11 


121 


122  THE   ELM   TREE. 

A  goodly  elm,  of  noble  gii'tli, 
That,  thrice  the  human  span  — 

While  on  their  variegated  course 
The  constant  seasons  ran  — 

Through  gale,  and  hail,  and  fiery  bolt, 
Haxi  stood  erect  as  man. 

But  now,  like  mortal  man  himself, 
Struck  down  by  hand  of  God, 

Or  heathen  idol  tumbled  prone 
Beneath  the  Eternal's  nod, 

In  all  its  giant  bulk  and  length 
It  lies  along  the  sod  ! 

Ay,  now  the  forest  trees  may  grieve 
And  make  a  common  moan 

Around  that  patriarchal  trunk 
So  newly  overthrown ; 

And  with  a  murmur  recognize 
A  doom  to  be  their  own  ! 

The  echo  sleeps  :  the  idle  axe, 

A  disregarded  tool, 
Lies  crushing  with  its  passive  weight 

The  toad's  reputed  stool  — 
The  woodman  wipes  his  dewy  brow 

"Within  the  shadows  cool. 

No  zephyr  stirs  :  the  ear  may  catch 
The  smallest  insect-hum  ; 

But  on  the  disappointed  sense 
No  mystic  whispers  come  ; 

No  tone  of  sylvan  sympathy. 
The  forest  trees  are  dumb. 


THE   ELM   TREE.  123 

No  leafy  noise,  nor  inward  voice, 

No  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground ; 
As  in  that  shady  avenue, 

Where  lofty  elms  abound ! 


PART  m. 

The  deed  is  done  :  the  tree  is  low 

That  stood  so  long  and  firm  ; 
The  woodman  and  his  axe  are  gone, 

His  toil  has  found  its  term  ; 
And  where  he  wi'ought  the  speckled  thrush 

Secui-ely  hunts  the  worm. 

The  cony  from  the  sandy  bank 

Has  run  a  rapid  race. 
Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern, 

To  seek  the  open  space  ; 
And  on  its  haunches  sits  erect 

To  clean  its  furry  face. 

The  dappled  fawn  is  close  at  hand, 

The  hind  is  browsing  near, — 
And  on  the  larch's  lowest  bough 
The  ousel  whistles  clear ; 
But  checks  the  note 
Within  its  throat, 
As  choked  with  sudden  fear  ! 


124  THE  ELM   TREE. 

With  sudden  fear  hei'  wormy  quest 
The  thrush  abruptly  quits  — 

Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern 
The  startled  cony  flits  ; 

And  on  the  larch's  lowest  bough 
No  more  the  ousel  sits. 

With  sudden  fear 
The  dappled  deer 
Effect  a  swift  escape  ; 
But  well  might  bolder  creatures  start, 

And  fly,  or  stand  agape, 
With  rising  hair  and  curdled  blood, 
To  see  so  grim  a  Shape  ! 

The  very  sky  turns  pale  above  ; 

The  earth  grows  dark  beneath  ; 
The  human  terror  thrills  with  cold, 

And  draws  a  shorter  breath  — 
An  universal  panic  owns 

The  dread  approach  of  Death  ! 

With  silent  pace,  as  shadows  come, 
And  dark  as  shadows  be. 

The  grisly  phantom  takes  his  stand 
Beside  the  fallen  tree. 

And  scans  it  with  his  gloomy  eyes, 
And  laughs  with  horrid  glee 

A  dreary  laugh  and  desolate. 
Where  mirth  is  void  and  null, 

As  hollow  as  its  echo  sounds 
Within  the  hollow  skull  — 

"  Whoever  laid  this  tree  along. 
His  hatchet  was  not  dull ! 


THE  ELM   TREE. 

"  The  human  arm  and  human  tool 

Have  done  their  duty  well ! 
But  after  sound  of  ringing  axe 
Must  sound  the  ringing  knell ; 
When  elm  or  oak 
Have  felt  the  stroke 
My  turn  it  is  to  fell ! 

"  No  passive  unregarded  tree, 

A  senseless  thing  of  wood, 
Wherein  the  sluggish  sap  ascends 

To  swell  the  vernal  bud  — 
But  conscious,  moving,  breathing  trunks 

That  throb  with  living  blood  ! 

"  No  forest  monarch  yearly  clad 

In  mantle  green  or  brown  ; 
That  unrecorded  lives,  and  falls 

By  hand  of  rustic  clown  — 
But  kings  who  don  the  purple  robe, 

And  wear  the  jewelled  crown. 

"  Ah  !  little  recks  the  royal  mind. 

Within  his  banquet-hall. 
While  tapers  shine  and  music  breathes 

And  beauty  leads  the  ball, — 
He  little  recks  the  oaken  plank 

Shall  be  his  palace  wall ! 

"  Ah,  little  dreams  the  haughty  peer, 
The  while  his  falcon  flies  — 

Or  on  the  blood-bedabbled  turf 
The  antlered  quarry  dies  — 

That  in  his  own  ancestral  park 
The  narrow  dwelling  lies 
11* 


125 


126  THE   ELM  TREE. 

"  But  haughty  peer  and  mighty  king 

One  doom  shall  overwhelm  ! 
The  oaken  cell 
Shall  lodge  him  well 

Whose  sceptre  ruled  a  realm  — 
While  he  who  never  knew  a  home 

Shall  find  it  in  the  elm  ! 

"  The  tattered,  lean,  dejected  wretch, 
Who  begs  from  door  to  door, 

And  dies  within  the  cressy  ditch, 
Or  on  the  barren  moor, 

The  friendly  elm  shall  lodge  and  clothe 
That  houseless  man  and  poor  ! 

"  Yea,  this  recumbent  rugged  trunk, 
That  lies  so  long  and  prone, 

With  many  a  fallen  acorn-cup. 
And  mast  and  firry  cone  — 

This  rugged  trunk  shall  hold  its  share 
Of  mortal  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"  A  miser  hoarding  heaps  of  gold, 
But  pale  with  ague-fears  — 

A  wife  lamenting  love's  decay, 
With  secret  cruel  tears. 

Distilling  bitter,  bitter  drops 
From  sweets  of  former  years  — 

•'  A  man  within  whose  gloomy  mind 
Ofience  had  darkly  sunk. 

Who  out  of  fierce  Revenge's  cup 
Hath  madly,  darkly  drunk  — 

Grief,  Avarice,  and  Hate  shall  sleep 
Within  this  very  trunk  ! 


THE    ELM    TREE.  127 

"  This  massy  trunk  that  lies  aloncr. 

And  many  more  must  foil  — 

For  the  very  knave 

"Who  digs  the  grave, 

The  man  who  spreads  the  pall, 

And  he  who  tolls  the  funeral  bell, 

The  elm  shall  have  them  all ! 

"  The  tall  abounding  elm  that  grows 

In  hedge-rows  up  and  down  : 
In  field  and  forest,  copse  and  park, 

And  in  the  peopled  town, 
With  colonies  of  noisy  rooks 

That  nestle  on  its  crown. 

"  And  well  the  abounding  elm  may  grow 

In  field  and  hedge  so  rife, 
In  forest,  copse,  and  wooded  park, 

And  'mid  the  city's  strife, 
For,  every  hour  that  passes  by 

Shall  end  a  human  life  !  " 

The  phantom  ends  :  the  shade  is  gone ; 

The  sky  is  clear  and  bright ; 
On  turf,  and  moss,  and  fallen  tree, 

There  glows  a  ruddy  light ; 
And  bounding  through  the  golden  fern 

The  rabbit  comes  to  bite. 

The  thrush's  mate  beside  her  sits 

And  pipes  a  merry  lay  ; 
The  dove  is  in  the  evergreens  ; 

And  on  the  larch's  spray 
The  fly-bird  flutters  up  and  down, 

To  catch  its  tiny  prey. 


128  THE   ELM    TREE. 

The  gentle  hind  and  dappled  fawn 
Are  coming  up  the  glade  ; 

Each  harmless  furred  and  feathered  thing 
Is  glad,  and  not  afraid  — 

But  on  my  saddened  spirit  still 
The  shadow  leaves  a  shade. 

A  secret,  vague,  prophetic  gloom, 
As  though  by  certain  mark 

I  knew  the  fore-appointed  tree, 
"Within  whose  rugged  bark 

This  warm  and  living  frame  shall  find 
Its  narrow  house  and  dark. 

That  mystic  tree  which  breathed  to  me 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground ; 
Within  that  shady  avenue 

Where  lofty  elms  abound. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE 


A   ROMANCE. 


'  A  jolly  place,"  said  he,  "  in  times  of  old. 
But  something  ails  it  now  :  the  place  is  curst." 

Hart-Leap  Well,  by  Wordsworth. 


PART  I. 

Some  dreams  we  have  are  nothing  else  but  dreams, 
Unnatural  and  full  of  contradictions ; 
Yet  others  of  our  most  romantic  schemes 
Are  something  more  than  fictions. 

It  might  be  only  on  enchanted  ground  ; 
It  might  be  merely  by  a  thought's  expansion  ; 
But  in  the  spirit,  or  the  flesh,  I  found 
An  old  deserted  mansion. 

A  residence  for  woman,  child,  and  man, 
A  dwelling-place, —  and  yet  no  habitation  ; 
A  house, —  but  under  some  prodigious  ban 
Of  excommunication. 

Unhinged  the  iron  gates  half  open  hung. 
Jarred  by  the  gusty  gales  of  many  Avinters, 
That  from  its  crumbled  pedestal  had  flung 
One  marble  globe  in  splinters. 


130  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

No  dog  "svas  at  the  threshold,  great  or  small ; 
No  pigeon  on  the  roof —  no  household  creature  — 
No  cat  demurely  dozing  on  the  wall  — 
Not  one  domestic  feature. 

No  human  ficjure  stirred,  to  go  or  come : 
No  face  looked  forth  from  shut  or  open  casement : 
No  chimney  smoked  —  there  was  no  sign  of  home 
From  parapet  to  basement. 

With  shattered  panes  the  grassy  court  was  starred ; 
The  time-worn  coping-stone  had  tumbled  after ; 
And  through  the  ragged  roof  the  sky  shone,  barred 
With  naked  beam  and  rafter. 

O'er  all  there  hung  a  shadow  and  a  fear ; 

A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

The  flower  grew  wild  and  rankly  as  the  weed, 
Roses  with  thistles  struggled  for  espial, 
And  vagrant  plants  of  parasitic  breed 
Had  overgrown  the  dial. 

But,  gay  or  gloomy,  steadfast  or  infirm. 
No  heart  was  there  to  heed  the  hour's  duration ; 
All  times  and  tides  were  lost  in  one  long  term 
Of  stagnant  desolation. 

The  wren  had  built  within  the  porch,  she  found 
Its  quiet  loneliness  so  sure  and  thorough  ; 
And  on  the  lawn, —  within  its  turfy  mound, — 
The  rabbit  made  his  burrow. 


THE   HAUNTED    HOUSE. 


131 


The  rabbit  wild  and  gray,  that  flitted  through 

The  shrubby  clumps,  and  frisked,  and  sat,  and  vanished 

But  leisurely  and  bold,  as  if  he  knew 

His  enemy  -was  banished. 

The  wary  crow, —  the  pheasant  from  the  woods,  — 
Lulled  by  the  still  and  everlasting  sameness. 
Close  to  the  mansion,  like  domestic  broods, 
Fed  with  a  "shocking  tameness." 

The  coot  was  swimming  in  the  reedy  pond, 
Beside  the  water-hen,  so  soon  aftrighted ; 
And  in  the  weedy  moat  the  heron,  fond 
Of  solitude,  alighted. 

The  moping  heron,  motionless  and  stiff, 
That  on  a  stone,  as  silently  and  stilly, 
Stood,  an  apparent  sentinel,  as  if 
To  guard  the  water-lily. 

No  sound  was  heard,  except,  from  far  away, 
The  ringing  of  the  whitwall's  shrilly  laughter. 
Or.  now  and  then,  the  chatter  of  the  jay, 
That  Echo  murmured  after. 

But  Echo  never  mocked  the  human  tongue ; 
Some  weighty  crime,  that  Heaven  could  not  pardon, 
A  secret  curse  on  that  old  building  hung, 
And  its  deserted  garden. 

The  beds  were  all  untouched  by  hand  or  tool ; 
No  footstep  marked  the  damp  and  mossy  gravel. 
Each  walk  as  green  as  is  the  mantled  pool 
For  want  of  human  travel. 


132  THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

The  vine  unpruned,  and  tlie  neglected  peach, 
Drooped  from  the  wall  with  which  they  used  to  grapple  ; 
And  on  the  cankered  tree,  in  easy  reach, 
Rotted  the  golden  apple. 

But  awfully  the  truant  shunned  the  ground. 
The  vagrant  kept  aloof,  and  daring  poacher  : 
In  spite  of  gaps  that  through  the  fences  round 
Invited  the  encroacher. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

The  pear  and  quince  lay  squandered  on  the  grass  ; 
The  mould  was  purple  with  unheeded  showers 
Of  bloomy  plums  —  a  wilderness  it  was 
Of  fruits,  and  weeds,  and  flowers  ! 

The  marigold  amidst  the  nettles  blew, 

The  gourd  embraced  the  rose-bush  in  its  ramble, 

The  thistle  and  the  stock  together  grew. 

The  hollyhock  and  bramble. 

The  bear-bine  with  the  lilac  interlaced ; 

The  sturdy  burdock  choked  its  slender  neighbor. 

The  spicy  pink.     All  tokens  were  effaced 

Of  human  care  and  labor. 

The  very  yew  formality  had  trained 

To  such  a  rigid  pyramidal  stature, 

For  want  of  trimming  had  almost  regained 

The  raggedness  of  nature. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  135 

The  fountain  was  a-dry  —  neglect  and  time 
Had  marred  the  work  of  artisan  and  mason, 
And  efts  and  croaking  frogs,  begot  of  slime, 
Sprawled  in  the  ruined  basin. 

The  statue,  fallen  from  its  marble  base, 
Amidst  the  refuse  leaves,  and  herbage  rotten, 
Lay  like  the  idol  of  some  bygone  race, 
Its  name  and  rites  forgotten. 

On  every  side  the  aspect  was  the  same, 
All  ruined,  desolate,  forlorn  and  savage : 
No  hand  or  foot  within  the  precinct  came 
To  rectify  or  ravage. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear  ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


PART  n. 


0,  very  gloomy  is  the  house  of  woe, 
WTiere  tears  are  falling  while  the  bell  is  knelling, 
With  all  the  dark  solemnities  which  show 
That  Death  is  in  the  dwelling  ! 

0,  very,  very  dreary  is  the  room 
Where  love,  domestic  love,  no  longer  nestles. 
But,  smitten  by  the  common  stroke  of  doom, 
The  corpse  lies  on  the  trestles  ! 
12 


134  THE   HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

But  house  of  woe,  and  hearse,  and  sable  pall, 
The  narrow  home  of  the  departed  mortal, 
Ne'er  looked  so  gloomy  as  that  ghostly  hall. 
With  its  deserted  portal  ! 

The  centipede  along  the  threshold  crept, 
The  cobweb  hung  across  in  mazy  tangle, 
And  in  its  winding-sheet  the  maggot  slept, 
At  every  nook  and  angle. 

.    The  keyhole  lodged  the  earwig  and  her  brood ; 
The  emmets  of  the  steps  had  old  possession. 
And  marched  hi  search  of  their  diurnal  food 
In  undisturbed  procession. 

As  undisturbed  as  the  prehensile  cell 
Of  moth  or  maggot,  or  the  spider's  tissue  ; 
For  never  foot  upon  that  threshold  fell, 
To  enter  or  to  issue. 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted. 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

Howbeit,  the  door  I  pushed  —  or  so  I  dreamed  — 
Which  slowly,  slowly  gaped, —  the  hinges  creakino- 
With  such  a  rusty  eloquence,  it  seemed 
That  Time  himself  was  speaking. 

But  Time  was  dumb  within  that  mansion  old, 
Or  left  his  tale  to  the  heraldic  bannei-s 
That  hung  from  the  corroded  walls,  and  told 
Of  former  men  and  manners. 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE.  135 

Those  tattered  flags,  that  with  the  opened  door 
Seemed  the  old  wave  of  battle  to  remember, 
While  fallen  fragments  danced  upon  the  floor 
Like  dead  leaves  in  December. 

The  startled  bats  flew  out  —  bkd  after  bird  — 
The  screech-owl  overhead  began  to  flutter, 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  cry  that  she  had  heard 
Some  dying  victim  utter  ! 

A  shriek  that  echoed  from  the  joisted  roof. 
And  up  the  staii',  and  further  still  and  further, 
Till  in  some  ringing  chamber  far  aloof 
It  ceased  its  tale  of  murther  ! 

Meanwhile  the  rusty  armor  rattled  round. 
The  banner  shuddered,  and  the  racrsred  streamer ; 
All  things  the  horrid  tenor  of  the  sound 
Acknowledged  with  a  tremor. 

The  antlers,  where  the  helmet  hung  and  belt, 
Stirred  as  the  tempest  stirs  the  forest  branches, 
Or  as  the  stag  had  trembled  when  he  felt 
The  bloodhound  at  his  haunches. 

The  window  jingled  in  its  crumbled  frame, 
And  through  its  many  gaps  of  destitution 
Dolorous  moans  and  hollow  sighings  came, 
Like  those  of  dissolution. 

The  wood-louse  dropped,  and  rolled  into  a  ball, 
Touched  by  some  impulse  occult  or  mechanic  ; 
And  nameless  beetles  ran  along  the  wall 
Li  universal  panic. 


136  THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

The  subtle  spider,  that  from  overhead 
Hung  like  a  spy  on  human  guilt  and  error, 
Suddenly  turned,  and  up  its  slender  thread 
Ran  with  a  nimble  terror. 

The  very  stains  and  fractures  on  the  wall, 
Assuming  features  solemn  and  terrific, 
Hinted  some  tragedy  of  that  old  hall, 
Locked  up  in  hieroglyphic. 

Some  tale  that  might,  perchance,  have  solved  the  doubt, 
Wherefore  amongst  those  flags  so  dull  and  livid 
The  banner  of  the  Bloody  Hand  shone  out. 
So  ominously  vivid. 

Some  key  to  that  inscrutable  appeal, 
Which  made  the  very  frame  of  Nature  quiver, 
And  every  thrilling  nerve  and  fibre  feel 
So  ague-like  a  shiver. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear  ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 

If  but  a  rat  had  lingered  in  the  house, 
To  lure  the  thought  into  a  social  channel ! 
But  not  a  rat  remained,  or  tiny  mouse. 
To  squeak  behind  the  panel. 

Huge  drops  rolled  down  the  walls,  as  if  they  wept ; 
And  where  the  cricket  used  to  chirp  so  shrilly 
The  toad  was  squatting,  and  the  lizard  crept 
On  that  damp  hearth  and  chilly. 


THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE.  137 

For  years  no  cheerful  blaze  had  sparkled  there, 
Or  glanced  on  coat  of  buff  or  knightly  metal ; 
The  slug  was  crawling  on  the  vacant  cliau', — 
The  snail  upon  the  settle. 

The  floor  was  redolent  of  mould  and  must, 
The  fungus  in  the  rotten  seams  had  quickened ; 
"While  on  the  oaken  table  coats  of  dust 
Perennially  had  thickened. 

No  mark  of  leathern  jack  or  metal  cann, 
No  cup  —  no  horn  —  no  hospitable  token, — 
All  social  ties  between  that  board  and  man 
Had  long  ago  been  broken. 

There  was  so  foul  a  rumor  in  the  air. 
The  shadow -of  a  presence  so  atrocious, 
No  human  creature  could  have  feasted  there, 
Even  the  most  ferocious. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted. 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


PART  m. 


'T  is  hard  for  human  actions  to  account, 
Whether  from  reason  or  from  impulse  only  — 
But  some  internal  prompting  bade  me  mount 
The  gloomy  stairs  and  lonely. 
12* 


138  THE    HArXTED    HOUSE. 

Those  gloomy  stairs,  so  dark,  and  damp,  and  cold. 
TVith  odors  as  from  bones  and  relics  carnal, 
Deprived  of  rite,  and  consecrated  mould, 
The  chapel  vault,  or  charnel. 

Those  drearj  stairs,  where  with  the  sounding  stress 
Of  every  step  so  many  echoes  blended, 
The  mind,  with  dark  misgivings,  feared  to  guess 
How  many  feet  ascended. 

The  tempest  with  its  spoils  had  drifted  in, 
Till  each  unwholesome  stone  was  darkly  spotted, 
As  thickly  as  the  leopard's  dappled  skin, 
"With  leaves  that  rankly  rotted. 

The  air  was  thick  —  and  in  the  upper  gloom 
The  bat  —  or  something  in  its  shape  —  was  winging : 
And  on  the  wall,  as  chilly  as  a  tomb, 
The  death's-head  moth  was  clinging. 

That  mystic  moth,  which,  with  a  sense  profooind 
Of  all  unholy  presence,  augurs  truly ; 
And  with  a  grim  simificance  flits  round 
The  taper  burning  bluely. 

Such  omens  in  the  place  there  seemed  to  be. 
At  every  crooked  turn,  or  on  the  landing, 
The  straining  eyeball  was  prepared  to  see 
Some  apparition  standing. 

For  over  all  there  hung  a  cloud  of  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted, 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


THE   HAUNTED    HOUSE. 


139 


Yet  no  portentous  shape  the  sight  amazed ; 
Each  object  plain,  and  tangible,  and  valid ; 
But  from  their  tarnished  frames  dark  figures  gazed, 
And  faces  spectre-pallid. 

Not  merely  with  the  mimic  life  that  lies 

Within  the  compass  of  art's  simulation ; 

Then-  souls  were  looking  through  their  painted  eyes 

With  awful  speculation. 

On  every  lip  a  speechless  horror  dwelt ; 
On  every  brow  the  burthen  of  afiiiction  ; 
The  old  ancestral  spirits  knew  and  felt 
The  house's  malediction. 

Such  earnest  woe  their  features  overcast, 

They  might  have  stirred,  or  sighed,  or  wept,  or  spoken. 

But,  save  the  hollow  moaning  of  the  blast, 

The  stillness  was  unbroken. 

No  other  sound  or  stu-  of  life  was  there, 
Except  my  steps  in  solitary  clamber, 
From  flight  to  flight,  from  humid  stair  to  stair, 
From  chamber  into  chamber. 

Deserted  rooms  of  luxury  and  state, 
That  old  magnificence  had  richly  furnished 
With  pictures,  cabinets  of  ancient  date, 
And  carvings  gilt  and  burnished. 

Rich  hangings,  storied  by  the  needle's  art, 
With  Scripture  history,  or  classic  fable ; 
But  all  had  faded,  save  one  ragged  part, 
Where  Cain  was  slaying  Abel. 


140  THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

The  silent  waste  of  mildew  and  the  moth 
Had  marred  the  tissue  with  a  partial  ravage ; 
But  undecajing  frowned  upon  the  cloth 
Each  feature  stern  and  savage. 

The  sky  was  pale ;  the  cloud  a  thing  of  doubt ; 
Some  hues  were  fresh,  and  some  decayed  and  duller 
But  still  the  Bloody  Haxd  shone  strangely  out 
With  vehemence  of  color  ! 

The  Bloody  Hand  that  with  a  lurid  stam 
Shone  on  the  dusty  floor,  a  dismal  token, 
Projected  from  the  casement's  painted  pane, 
Where  all  beside  was  broken. 

The  Bloody  Hand  significant  of  crime, 
That,  glaring  on  the  old  heraldic  banner, 
Had  kept  its  crimson  unimpaired  by  time, 
In  such  a  wondrous  manner  ! 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted. 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted ! 

The  death-watch  ticked  behind  the  panelled  oak, 
Inexplicable  tremors  shook  the  arras, 
And  echoes  strange  and  mystical  awoke. 
The  fancy  to  embarrass. 

Prophetic  hints  that  filled  the  soul  with  dread, 
But  through  one  gloomy  entrance  pointing  mostly, 
The  while  some  secret  inspiration  said, 
That  chamber  is  the  ghostly  ! 


THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 


141 


Across  the  door  no  gossamer  festoon 

Swung  pendulous  — no  web  —  no  dusty  fringes, 

No  silky  chrysalis  or  white  cocoon 

About  its  nooks  and  hinges. 

The  spider  shunned  the  interdicted  room, 
The  moth,  the  beetle,  and  the  fly  were  banished. 
And  where  the  sunbeam  fell  athwart  the  gloom 
The  very  midge  had  vanished. 

One  lonely  ray  that  glanced  upon  a  bed, 
As  if  with  awful  aim  direct  and  certain, 
To  show  the  Bloody  Hand  in  burning  red 
Embroidered  on  the  curtain. 

And  yet  no  gory  stain  was  on  the  quilt  — 
The  pillow  in  its  place  had  slowly  rotted; 
The  floor  alone  retained  the  trace  of  guilt, 
Those  boards  obscurely  spotted. 

Obscurely  spotted  to  the  door,  and  thence 
With  mazy  doubles  to  the  grated  casement  — 
0,  what  a  tale  they  told  of  fear  intense, 
Of  horror  and  amazement ! 

What  human  creature  in  the  dead  of  night 
Had  coursed  like  hunted  hare  that  cruel  distance  7 
Had  sought  the  door,  the  window,  in  his  flight. 
Striving  for  dear  existence  7 

What  shrieking  spirit  in  that  bloody  room 
Its  mortal  frame  had  violently  quitted  7  — 
Across  the  sunbeam,  with  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  ghostly  shadow  flitted. 


142  THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

Across  the  sunbeam,  and  along  the  wall, 
But  painted  on  the  air  so  verj  dimly, 
It  hardlj  veiled  the  tapestry  at  all. 
Or  portrait  frowning  grimly. 

O'er  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  fear ; 
A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted. 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
The  place  is  haunted  ! 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS 


"  Drowned  !  drowned  !  "  —  Hamlet. 


Ojie  more  unfortunate, 
Wearj  of  breath, 
Rashlj  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her. 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 


144  THE   BRIDGE    OF   SIGHS. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Kash  and  undutifal : 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve"s  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  "wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  1 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 
0,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 


THE   BRIDGE    OF   SIGHS.  145 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver- 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement. 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch. 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it. 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
13 


146  THE   BRIDGE    OF   SIGHS. 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently, —  kindly, — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely. 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity. 
Into  her  rest.  — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly. 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness. 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SHIRT, 


W^ITH  fingei-s  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 

"  Work  I  work  !  work  ! 
While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It  "s  0  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

''  Work  —  work  —  work 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 

Work  —  work  —  work 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 


L 


148  THE  SOXG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

"0,  men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

0,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  "re  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shiii;. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death  ? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
0,  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear. 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  7    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chau'  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work  —  work  —  work. 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 


THE   SOXa    OF   THE   SHIKT. 


149 


« '  "Work  —  work  —  work, 
In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
When  the  Aveather  is  warm  and  bright  — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 
And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 
"  0  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  — 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 
"  0  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief  ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 
With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags. 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch,— 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !  - 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt  !  " 
13* 


i 


THE    LADY'S    DREAM. 


The  ladj  lay  in  her  bed, 

Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 
But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken  still ; 

For,  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  muttered  and  moaned, 

And  tossed  her  arms  aloft. 

At  last  she  startled  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air. 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 

Some  dreadful  phantom  there  — 
And  then  in  the  pillow  she  buried  her  face 

From  visions  ill  to  bear. 

The  very  curtain  shook, 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme ; 
And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broidered  quilt 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam ; 
And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as  she  cried : 

'  •  0,  me  !  that  awful  dream  ! 

"  That  wear  J,  wearj  walk, 

In  the  church-yard's  dismal  ground  ! 
And  those  horrible  things,  with  shady  wings, 

That  came  and  flitted  round, — 
Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death, 

In  every  sight  and  sound ! 


THE   lady's   dream. 


151 


"  Ajid,  0  !  those  maidens  young, 

Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room, 
With  figures  drooping  and  spectres  thin. 

And  cheeks  -without  a  bloom  ;  — 
And  the  voice  that  cried,  •  For  the  pomp  of  pride, 

We  haste  to  an  early  tomb  ! 

"  '  For  the  pomp  and  pleasure  of  pride, 

We  toil  like  Afric  slaves. 
And  only  to  earn  a  home,  at  last. 

Where  yonder  cypress  waves  ; '  — 
And  then  they  pointed  —  I  never  saw 

A  ground  so  full  of  graves ! 

"  And  still  the  coffins  came. 

With  theii-  sorrowful  trains  and  slow ; 

Coffin  after  coffin  stilL 

A  sad  and  sickening  show  ; 

From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  di'eamt 
Of  such  a  world  of  woe  ! 

"  Qf  the  hearts  that  daily  break, 

Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 
Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life, 

That  grieve  this  earthly  ball  — 
Disease,  and  Hunger,  and  Pain,  and  Want, 

But  now  I  di-eamt  of  them  all ! 

"  For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there, 
And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread. 

And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor 
Who  begged  —  to  bury  the  dead  ; 

The  naked,  alas  !  that  I  might  have  clad. 
The  famished  I  might  have  fed  ! 


152  THE  lady's  dream. 

"  The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed, 

And  the  unregarded  tears  ; 
For  manj  a  thronging  shape  was  there, 

From  long-forgotten  years, — 
Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 

Who  raised  my  childish  fears  ! 

"  Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 
I  scanned  with  a  heedless  eye, 

Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there 
As  when  I  passed  it  by : 

Woe,  woe  for  me  if  the  past  should  be 
Thus  present  when  I  die  ! 

"No  need  of  sulphureous  lake. 

No  need  of  fiery  coal. 
But  only  that  crowd  of  human  kind 

Who  wanted  pity  and  dole  — 
In  everlasting  retrospect  — 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soul ! 

"  Alas  !  I  have  walked  through  life 

Too  heedless  where  I  trod ; 
Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow-worm, 

And  fill  the  burial  sod  — 
Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  falls 

Not  unmarked  of  God  ! 

''  I  drank  the  richest  draughts ; 

And  ate  whatever  is  sood  — 
Fish,  and  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  fruit. 

Supplied  my  hungry  mood ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  wretched  ones 

That  starve  for  want  of  food  ! 


THE  lady's  dream.  153 

"  I  dressed  as  the  noble  dress, 

In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold, 
With  silk,  and  satin,  and  costly  furs, 

In  many  an  ample  fold  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  naked  limbs 

That  froze  with  winter's  cold. 

'•  The  wounds  I  might  have  healed  ! 

The  human  sorrow  and  smart ! 
And  yet  it  never  Avas  in  my  soul 

To  play  so  ill  a  part : 
But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 

As  well  as  want  of  heart !  " 

She  clasped  her  fervent  hands, 

And  the  tears  began  to  stream  ; 
Large,  and  bitter,  and  fast  they  fell; 

Remorse  was  so  extreme  ; 
And  yet,  0,  yet,  that  many  a  dame 

Would  dream  the  Lady's  Dream  ! 


THE    WORKHOUSE    CLOCK 


AX   ALLEGORY. 


There  "s  a  murmur  in  the  air, 
A  noise  in  every  street  — 
The  murmur  of  many  tongues, 
The  noise  of  numerous  feet  — 
While  rouni  the  workhouse  door 
The  laboring  classes  flock. 
For  why  ]  —  the  overseer  of  the  poor 
Is  setting  the  workhouse  clock. 

Who  does  not  hear  the  tramp 
Of  thousands  speeding  along 
Of  either  sex  and  various  stamp, 
Sickly,  crippled,  or  strong. 
Walking,  limping,  creeping 
From  court,  and  allev.  and  lane, 
But  all  in  one  direction  sweeping, 
Like  rivers  that  seek  the  main  ? 
Who  does  not  see  them  sally 
From  mill,  and  garret,  and  room, 
Li  lane,  and  court,  and  alley, 
From  homes  in  poverty's  lowest  valley, 
Furnished  with  shuttle  and  loom  — 
Poor  slaves  of  Civilization's  galley  — 
And  in  the  road  and  footways  rally. 
As  if  for  the  day  of  doom  ? 


THE    WORKHOUSE    CLOCK. 

Some,  of  hardly  human  form, 
Stunted,  crooked,  and  crippled  by  toil ; 
Dino^y  with  smoke  and  dust  and  oil, 
And  smirched  besides  -with  vicious  soil, 
Clustering,  mustering,  all  in  a  swarm. 
Father,  mother,  and  careful  child, 
Looking  as  if  it  had  never  smiled  — 
The  seamstress,  lean,  and  weary,  and  wan, 
"With  only  the  ghosts  of  garments  on  — 
The  weaver,  her  sallow  neighbor. 
The  grim  and  sooty  artisan  ; 
Every  soul  —  child,  woman,  or  man, 
Who  lives  —  or  dies  —  by  labor. 

Stirred  by  an  overwhelming  zeal, 

And  social  impulse,  a  terrible  throng  ! 

Leaving  shuttle,  and  neaile,  and  wheel. 

Furnace,  and  grindstone,  spindle,  and  reel, 

Thread,  and  yarn,  and  iron,  and  steel  — 

Yea.  rest  and  the  yet  untasted  meal  — 

Gushing,  rushing,  crushing  along, 

A  very  torrent  of  Man  ! 

Urged  by  the  sighs  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 

Grown  at  last  to  a  hurricane  sti'ong. 

Stop  its  course  who  can  ! 

Stop  who  can  its  onward  course 

And  irresistible  moral  force  ; 

0  !  vain  and  idle  di-eam  ! 

For  surely  as  men  are  all  akin, 

"Whether  of  fair  or  sable  skin, 

According  to  Nature's  scheme, 

That  human  movement  contains  within 

A  blood-power  stronger  than  steam. 


155 


156  THE    -WOBKHOUSE    CLOCK. 

Onward,  onward,  with  hasty  feet,   ■   ■•'S«>5 
Thej  swarm  —  and  westward  still  —   " '"= 
Masses  born  to  drink  and  eat. 
But  starWng  amidst  WhitechapeFs  meat, 
And  famishing  down  Cornhill  ! 
Through  the  Poultry  —  but  still  unfed  — 
Christian  charity,  hang  your  head  ! 
Hungry  —  passing  the  Street  of  Bread  ; 
Thirsty  —  the  Street  of  Milk  ; 
Ragged  —  beside  the  Ludgate  mart. 
So  gorgeous,  through  mechanic  art, 
With  cotton,  and  wool,  and  silk  ! 

At  last,  before  that  door 

That  bears  so  many  a  knock 

Ere  ever  it  opens  to  sick  or  poor. 

Like  sheep  they  huddle  and  flock  — 

And  would  that  all  the  good  and  wise 

Could  see  the  million  of  hollow  eyes, 

With  a  gleam  derived  from  hope  and  the  skies, 

Upturned  to  the  workhouse  clock  ! 

0  !  that  the  parish  powers, 

Who  regulate  labor's  hours, 

The  daily  amount  of  human  trial. 

Weariness,  pain,  and  self-denial. 

Would  turn  from  the  artificial  dial 

That  striketh  ten  or  eleven, 

And  go,  for  once,  by  that  older  one 

That  stands  in  the  light  of  Nature's  sun, 

And  takes  its  time  from  Heaven  ! 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LABORER, 


A  SPADE  !  a  rake !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  — 
And  here 's  a  ready  hand 

To  ply  the  needful  tool, 
And  skilled  enough,  by  lessons  rough, 

In  Labor's  rugged  school. 

To  hedge,  or  dig  the  ditch. 

To  lop  or  fell  the  tree. 
To  lay  the  swarth  on  the  sultry  field, 

Or  plough  the  stubborn  lea ; 
The  harvest  stack  to  bind, 

The  wheaten  rick  to  thatch, 
And  never  fear  in  my  pouch  to  find 

The  tinder  or  the  match. 

To  a  flaming  barn  or  farm 

My  fancies  never  roam; 
The  fire  I  yeai-n  to  kindle  and  burn 

Is  on  the  hearth  of  home ; 
Where  children  huddle  and  crouch 

Through  dark  long  whiter  days, 
14 


158  THE   LAY    OF    THE   LABORER. 

Where  starving  children  huddle  and  crouch, 

To  see  the  cheerful  rays, 
A-glowing  on  the  haggard  cheek, 

And  not  in  the  haggard's  blaze ! 

To  Him  -who  sends  a  drought 

o 

To  parch  the  fields  forlorn. 
The  rain  to  flood  the  meadows  with  mud, 

The  blight  to  blast  the  corn. 
To  Him  I  leave  to  guide 

The  bolt  in  its  crooked  path, 
To  strike  the  miser's  rick,  and  show 

The  skies  blood-red  with  wrath. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !   a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  je  will  — 
The  corn  to  thrash,  or  the  hedge  to  plash, 

The  market-team  to  drive, 
Or  mend  the  fence  bj  the  cover-side, 

And  leave  the  game  alive. 

Ay,  only  give  me  work. 

And  then  you  need  not  fear 
That  I  shall  snare  his  worship's  hare. 

Or  kill  his  grace's  deer ; 
Break  into  his  lordship's  house. 

To  steal  the  plate  so  rich ; 
Or  leave  the  yeoman  that  had  a  purse 

To  welter  in  the  ditch. 

Wherever  Nature  needs. 
Wherever  Labor  calls, 


THE   LAY    OF   THE   LABORER.  155 

No  job  I  '11  shirk  of  the  hardest  work, 

To  shun  the  workhouse  walls ; 
Where  savage  laws  begrudge 

The  pauper  babe  its  breath, 
And  doom  a  wife  to  a  widow's  life, 

Before  her  partner's  death. 

Mj  only  claim  is  this, 

"With  labor  stiff  and  stark 
By  lawful  turn  my  living  to  earn. 

Between  the  light  and  dark  ; 
My  daily  bread  and  nightly  bed. 

My  bacon,  and  drop  of  beer  — 
But  all  from  the  hand  that  holds  the  land, 

And  none  from  the  overseer  ! 

No  parish  money,  or  loaf, 

No  pauper  badges  for  me, — 
A  son  of  the  soil  by  right  of  toil 

Entitled  to  my  fee. 
No  alms  I  ask.  give  me  my  task ; 

Here  are  the  arm.  the  leg, 
The  strength,  the  sinews  of  a  man, 

To  work,  and  not  to  beg. 

Still  one  of  Adam's  heirs, 

Though  doomed  by  chance  of  birth 
To  dress  so  mean,  and  to  eat  the  lean 

Instead  of  the  fat  of  the  earth  : 
To  make  such  humble  meals 

As  honest  labor  can, 
A  bone  and  a  crust,  with  a  grace  to  God, 

And  little  thanks  to  man  ! 


160  THE  LAY    OE   THE   LABORER. 

A  spade !  a  rake !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  — 
Whatever  the  tool  to  ply, 

Here  is  a  willing  di-udge, 
With  muscle  and  limb,  and  woe  to  him 

Who  does  their  pay  begrudge  ! 

Who  every  weekly  score 

Docks  labor's  little  mite, 
Bestows  on  the  poor  at  the  temple  door, 

But  robbed  them  over  night. 
The  very  shilling  he  hoped  to  save. 

As  health  and  morals  fail, 
Shall  visit  me  in  the  New  Bastile 

The  Spital,  or  the  Gaol ! 


(r- 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


FAIR  ENES. 


0  SAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She  's  gone  into  the  west. 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest : 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0  turn  again,  fail*  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivalled  bright ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write  ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 
That  gallant  cavalier, 
Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 
And  whispered  thee  so  near  !  — 


164  FAIR   INES. 


Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 
Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 
The  dearest  of  the  dear  1 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore. 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before : 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay. 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ;  — 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

—  K  it  had  been  no  more  ! 

Alas,  alas  !  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song. 

With  music  waiting  on  her  steps. 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  music's  wrong. 

In  sounds  that  sang  farewell,  farewell, 

To  her  you  've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  ! 

That  vessel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea. 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF    SUMMER.  165 


THE  DEPARTURE   OF   SOIMER. 

Summer  is  gone  on  swallows"  wings, 

And  earth  has  buried  all  her  flowers  : 

No  more  the  lark,  the  linnet  sings, 

But  silence  sits  in  faded  bowers. 

There  is  a  shadow  on  the  plain 

Of  "Winter  ere  he  comes  again, — 

There  is  in  woods  a  solemn  sound 

Of  hollow  warnings  whispered  round, 

As  Echo  in  her  deep  recess 

For  once  had  turned  a  prophetess. 

Shuddering  Autumn  stops  to  list, 

And  breathes  his  fear  in  sudden  sighs. 

With  clouded  face,  and  hazel  ejes 

That  quench  themselves,  and  hide  in  mist. 

Yes.  Summer  's  gone  like  pageant  bright ; 
Its  glorious  days  of  golden  light 
Are  gone  — the  mimic  suns  that  quiver, 
Then  melt  in  Time's  dark-flowing  river. 
Gone  the  sweetly-scented  breeze 
That  spoke  in  music  to  the  trees  ; 
Gone  for  damp  and  chilly  breath, 
As  if  fresh  blown  o"er  marble  seas. 
Or  newly  from  the  lungs  of  Death.  — 
Gone  its  virgin  roses*  blushes. 
Warm  as  when  Aurora  rushes 
Freshly  from  the  god's  embrace, 
With  all  her  shame  upon  her  face. 
Old  Time  hath  laid  them  in  the  mould ; 
Sure  he  is  blind  as  well  as  old, 
Whose  hand  relentless  never  spares 
Young  cheeks  so  beauty-bright  as  theirs ! 


166  THE    DEPARTURE    OF    SUMMER. 

Gone  are  the  flame-ejed  lovers  now 
From  -where  so  blushing-blest  they  tarried 
Under  the  hawthorn's  blossom-bough, 
Gone ;  for  Daj  and  Xight  are  married. 
All  the  light  of  love  is  fled  :  — 
Alas  !  that  negro  breasts  should  hide 
The  lips  that  were  so  rosy  red, 
At  morning  and  at  even-tide  ! 

Delicjhtful  Summer  !  then  adieu 
Till  thou  shalt  visit  us  anew  : 
But  who  without  regretful  sigh 
Can  say  adieu,  and  see  thee  fly  ? 
Not  he  that  e'er  hath  felt  thy  power, 
His  joy  expanding  like  a  flower 
That  Cometh  after  rain  and  snow, 
Looks  up  at  heaven,  and  learns  to  glow  :  — 
Not  he  that  fled  from  Babel-strife 
To  the  green  Sabbath-land  of  life, 
To  dodge  dull  Care  'mid  clustered  trees, 
And  cool  his  forehead  in  the  breeze, — 
Whose  spirit,  weary- worn  perchance, 
Shook  from  its  wings  a  weight  of  grief, 
And  perched  upon  an  aspen-leaf, 
For  every  breath  to  make  it  dance. 

Farewell !  —  on  wings  of  sombre  stain, 
That  blacken  in  the  last  blue  skies, 
Thou  fly'st ;  but  thou  wilt  come  again 
On  the  gay  wings  of  butterflies. 
Spring  at  thy  approach  will  sprout 
Her  new  Corinthian  beauties  out. 
Leaf-woven  homes,  where  twitter-words 
Will  grow  to  songs,  and  eggs  to  birds ; 


THE   DEPARTURE    OF   SUMMER,  167 

Ambitious  buds  shall  swell  to  flowers, 

And  April  smiles  to  sunny  hours. 

Bright  days  shall  be,  and  gentle  nights 

Full  of  soft  breath  and  echo-lights, 

As  if  the  god  of  sun-time  kept 

His  eyes  half-open  while  he  slept. 

Roses  shall  be  where  roses  were, 

Not  shadows,  but  reality  ; 

As  if  they  never  perished  there, 

But  slept  in  immortality : 

Nature  shall  thrill  with  new  delight, 

And  Times  relumined  river  run 

Warm  as  young  blood,  and  dazzling  bright 

As  if  its  source  were  in  the  sun ! 

But  say,  hath  Winter  then  no  charms  'I 
Is  there  no  joy,  no  gladness,  warms 
His  aged  heart  ?  no  happy  wiles 
To  cheat  the  hoary  one  to  smiles  1 
Onward  he  comes  —  the  cruel  North 
Pours  his  fiu'ious  whirlwind  forth 
Before  him  —  and  we  breathe  the  breath 
Of  famished  bears  that  howl  to  death. 
Onward  he  comes  from  rocks  that  blanch 
O'er  solid  streams  that  never  flow  ; 
His  tears  all  ice,  his  locks  all  snow, 
Just  crept  from  some  huge  avalanche  — 
A  thing  half-breathing  and  half-warm. 
As  if  one  spark  began  to  glow 
Within  some  statue's  marble  form. 
Or  pilgrim  stiffened  in  the  storm. 
0  !  will  not  Mirth's  light  arrows  fail 
To  pierce  that  frozen  coat  of  mail  1 


168  THE  DEPARTURE   OF   SUMMER. 

0  !  will  not  joy  but  strive  in  vain 
To  light  up  those  glazed  eyes  again  1 

No  !  take  him  in,  and  blaze  the  oak, 
And  pour  the  wine,  and  warm  the  ale  ; 
His  sides  shall  shake  to  many  a  joke. 
His  tongue  shall  thaw  in  many  a  tale, 
His  eyes  grow  bright,  his  heart  be  gay, 
And  even  his  palsy  charmed  away. 
"What  heeds  he  then  the  boisterous  shout 
Of  angry  winds  that  scold  without, 
Like  shrewish  wives  at  tavern  door  7 
What  heeds  he  then  the  wild  uproar 
Of  billows  bursting  on  the  shore  7 
In  dashing  waves,  in  howling  breeze, 
There  is  a  music  that  can  charm  him ; 
When  safe,  and  sheltered,  and  at  ease. 
He  hears  the  storm  that  cannot  harm  him. 

But  hark  !  those  shouts  !  that  sudden  din 
Of  little  hearts  that  laugh  within. 
0  !  take  him  where  the  youngsters  play, 
And  he  will  grow  as  young  as  they  ! 
They  come  !  they  come  !  each  blue-eyed  Sport, 
The  Twelfth-Night  King  and  all  his  court  — 
'T  is  iSIu-th- fresh  crowned  with  mistletoe  ! 
Music  with  her  merry  fiddles, 
Joy  "on  light  fantastic  toe," 
Wit  with  all  his  jests  and  riddles. 
Singing  and  dancing  as  they  go. 
And  Love,  young  Love,  among  the  rest, 
A  welcome  —  nor  unbidden  guest. 

But  still  for  Summer  dost  thou  grieve  7 
Then  read  our  poets  —  they  shall  weave 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF   SUMMER.  163 

A  garden  of  green  flmcies  still, 

Where  thy  wish  may  rove  at  will. 

They  have  kept  for  after  treats 

The  essences  of  summer  sweets, 

And  echoes  of  its  songs  that  wind 

In  endless  music  through  the  mind  : 

They  have  stamped  in  visible  traces 

The  "  thoughts  that  breathe,"  in  words  that  shine  — 

The  flights  of  soul  in  sunny  places  — 

To  o-reet  and  company  with  thine. 

These  shall  wing  thee  on  to  flowers  — 

The  past  or  future  that  shall  seem 

All  the  brighter  in  thy  dream 

For  blowing  in  such  desert  hours. 

The  summer  never  shines  so  bright 

As  thought  of  in  a  winter's  night ; 

And  the  sweetest,  loveliest  rose 

Is  in  the  bud  before  it  blows ; 

The  dear  one  of  the  lover's  heart 

Is  painted  to  his  longing  eyes. 

In  charms  she  ne'er  can  realize  — 

But  when  she  turns  again  to  part. 

Dream  thou  then,  and  bind  thy  brow 

With  wreath  of  fancy  roses  now, 

And  drink  of  summer  in  the  cup 

Where  the  Muse  hath  mixed  it  up ; 

The  "  dance,  and  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth," 

With  the  warm  nectar  of  the  earth : 

Drink  !  't  will  glow  in  every  vein, 

And  thou  shalt  dream  the  wmter  through  : 
Then  waken  to  the  sun  again, 
And  find  thy  summer  vision  true  ! 
15 


170  ODE:   AUTUMN. 

ODE: 

AUTUMN. 

I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ;  — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night. 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  1  —  With  the  sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  South, 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 

And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  ?  —  Away,  away. 

On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 
Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer  ?  —  In  the  west. 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours. 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Xight  is  prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatched  from  her  flowers 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 
Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer, —  the  green  prime, - 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ]  —  Three 
On  the  mossed  elm  ;  three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling, —  and  one  upon  the  old  oak  tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad"s  immortality  1  — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew. 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  thi'ough 
In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 


ODE  :    AUTUMN. 


in 


The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplished  hoard, 

The  ants  have  brimmed  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey-bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  summer  in  their  luscious  cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  winged  across  the  main ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells. 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
iVmongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 
Alone,  alone, 
Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone, 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  withered  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  diowned  past 
In  the  hushed  mind's  mysterious  far  away. 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 

0,  go  and  sit  with  her.  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair  : 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  fiided 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  withered  everywhere 
To  make  her  bower, —  and  enough  of  gloom ; 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite. 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died. —  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's, —  she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 
Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear, — 
Enough  of  chilly  droppings  for  her  bowl ; 
Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair. 
To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul ! 


172  SONG. —  BALLAD. 

SONG. 

FOR    MUSIC. 

A  LAKE  and  a  fairy  boat 

To  sail  in  the  moonlight  clear, — 

And  merrily  we  would  float 

From  the  dragons  that  watch  us  here  ! 

Thy  gown  should  be  snow-white  silk ; 
And  strings  of  orient  pearls, 
Like  gossamers  dipped  in  milk, 
Should  twine  with  thy  raven  curls  ! 

Red  rubies  should  deck  thy  hands, 
And  diamonds  should  be  thy  dower  — 
But  fairies  have  broke  their  wands, 
And  wishing  has  lost  its  power  ! 


BALLAD. 


Spring  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary. 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly ; 

When  he  's  forsaken, 

AVithered  and  shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  7 

Love  will  not  clip  him. 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey, — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  1 


HYMN   TO   THE  SUN. 

June  it  was  jolly, 

0  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  ; 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly, — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  7 

Friends  they  are  scanty, 
Beggars  are  plenty, 

If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why ; 
Gold 's  in  his  clutches, 
(Buying  him  crutches  !)  — 

What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  7 


m 


HYiMN   TO   THE  SUN. 

Giver  of  glowing  light ! 
Though  but  a  god  of  other  days, 

The  kings  and  sages 

Of  wiser  ages 
Still  live  and  gladden  in  thy  genial  rays. 

King  of  the  tuneful  lyre, 
Still  poets'  hymns  to  thee  belong  ; 

Though  lips  are  cold 

Whereon  of  old 
Thy  beams  all  turned  to  worshipping  and  song  ! 

Lord  of  the  dreadful  bow. 
None  triumph  now  for  Python's  death  ; 
But  thou  dost  save 
From  hungry  grave 
The  life  that  hangs  upon  a  summer  breath. 
15* 


17-4  TO    A    COLD    BEAUTY. 

Father  of  rosj  day, 
No  more  th j  clouds  of  incense  rise ; 

But  waking  flowers 

At  morning  liours 
Give  out  their  sweets  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies, 

God  of  the  Delphic  fane, 
No  more  thou  listenest  to  hymns  sublime  ; 

But  they  will  leave 

On  winds  at  eve 
A  solemn  echo  to  the  end  of  time. 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY. 

Lady,  wouldst  thou  heiress  be 
To  "Winter's  cold  and  cruel  part? 

When  he  sets  the  rivers  free, 

Thou  dost  still  lock  up  thy  heart ;  — 

Thou  that  shouldst  outlast  the  snow 

But  in  the  whiteness  of  thy  brow  7 

Scorn  and  cold  neglect  are  made 
For  winter  gloom  and  winter  wind, 

But  thou  wilt  wrong  the  summer  air, 
Breathing  it  to  words  unkind, — 

Breath  which  only  should  belong 

To  love,  to  sunlight,  and  to  song  ! 

When  the  little  buds  unclose. 

Red,  and  white,  and  pied,  and  blue, 

And  that  virgin  flower,  the  rose. 
Opes  her  heart  to  hold  the  dew. 

Wilt  thou  lock  thy  bosom  up 

With  no  jewel  in  its  cup  7 


BUTH. 

Let  not  cold  December  sit 

Thus  in  Love's  peculiar  throne;  — 
Brooklets  are  not  prisoned  now, 

But  crystal  frosts  are  all  agone, 
And  that  which  hangs  upon  the  spray, 

It  is  no  snow,  but  flower  of  May! 


ITo 


RUTH. 

c5he  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun. 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush. 
Deeply  ripened ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell ; 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim ;  — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  :  — 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


176  THE   SEA    OF   DEATH. 

THE  SEA   OF  DEATH. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Methought  I  saw 

Life  swiftly  treading  over  endless  space ; 
And,  at  her  foot-print,  but  a  bygone  pace, 
The  ocean-past,  -which,  with  increasing  wave, 
Swallowed  her  steps  like  a  pursuing  grave. 

Sad  were  my  thoughts  that  anchored  silently 
On  the  dead  waters  of  that  passionless  sea. 
Unstirred  by  any  touch  of  living  breath  : 
Silence  hung  over  it,  and  drowsy  Death, 
Like  a  gorged  sea-bird,  slept  with  folded  wings 
On  crowded  carcasses  —  sad  passive  things 
That  wore  the  thin  gray  surface  like  a  veil 
Over  the  calmness  of  their  features  pale. 

And  there  were  spring-faced  cherubs  that  did  sleep 

Like  water-lilies  on  that  motionless  deep. 

How  beautiful !  with  bright  unruffled  hair 

On  sleek  unfretted  brows,  and  eyes  that  were 

Buried  in  marble  tombs,  a  pale  eclipse  ! 

And  smile-bedimpled  cheeks,  and  pleasant  lips, 

iSIeekly  apart,  as  if  the  soul  intense 

Spake  out  in  dreams  of  its  own  innocence : 

And  so  they  lay  in  loveliness,  and  kept 

The  birth-night  of  their  peace,  that  Life  even  wept 

With  very  envy  of  their  happy  fronts  ; 

For  there  were  neighbor  brows  scarred  by  the  brunts 

Of  strife  and  sorrowing  —  where  Care  had  set 

His  crooked  autograph,  and  marred  the  jet 

Of  glossy  locks,  with  hollow  eyes  forlorn. 

And  lips  that  curled  in  bitterness  and  scorn — 


AUTUMN. —  BALLAD.  177 

Wretched, — as  tbey  had  breathed  of  this  world's  pain, 

And  so  bequeathed  it  to  the  world  again, 

Through  the  beholder's  heart,  in  heavy  sighs. 

So  laj  they  garmented  in  torpid  light, 

Under  the  pall  of  a  transparent  night, 

Like  solemn  apparitions  lulled  sublime 

To  everlasting  rest, — tind  with  them  Time 

Slept,  as  he  sleeps  upon  the  silent  face 

Of  a  dark  dial  in  a  sunless  place. 


AUTHMX. 

The  autumn  skies  are  flushed  with  gold, 
And  fair  and  bright  the  rivers  run  : 
These  are  but  streams  of  winter  cold, 
And  painted  mists  that  quench  the  sun. 

In  secret  boughs  no  sweet  bii-ds  sing, 
In  secret  boughs  no  bird  can  shroud ; 
These  are  but  leaves  that  take  to  wing, 
And  wintry  winds  that  pipe  so  loud, 

*T  is  not  trees'  shade,  but  cloudy  glooms 
That  on  the  cheerless  valleys  foil : 
The  flowers  are  in  their  grassy  tombs, 
And  tears  of  dew  are  on  them  all. 


BALLAD. 


She  's  up  and  gone,  the  graceless  girl ! 

And  robbed  my  faihng  years  ; 
^ly  blood  before  was  thin  and  cold. 

But  now  t  is  turned  to  tears  ■  — 


178  I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

M  J  shadow  falls  upon  my  grave ; 

So  near  the  brink  I  stand, 
She  might  have  staid  a  little  yet, 

And  led  me  by  the  hand  ! 

Ay,  call  her  on  the  barren  moor, 

And  call  her  on  the  hill, — 
'Tis  nothing  but  the  heron's  cry, 

And  plover's  answer  shrill; 
My  child  is  flown  on  wilder  wings 

Than  they  have  ever  spread, 
And  I  may  even  walk  a  waste 

That  widened  when  she  fled. 

Full  many  a  thankless  child  has  been, 

But  never  one  like  mine  ; 
Her  meat  was  served  on  plates  of  gold,  | 

Her  drink  was  rosy  wine ; 
But  now  she  '11  share  the  robin's  food. 

And  sup  the  common  rill. 
Before  her  feet  will  turn  again 

To  meet  her  father's  will ! 


I  RE]SIE\rBER,    I   REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER.  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  bom, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn : 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day, 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  ' 


BALLAD.  179 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lilj-cups, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birth-daj, — 
The  tree  is  living  jet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swinsr. 

And  thought  the  air-  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wine ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high : 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I  'm  further  oflf  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


BALLAD. 


Sigh  on.  sad  heart,  for  Love's  eclipse 
And  Beauty's  fairest  queen, 

Though  't  is  not  for  my  peasant  lips 
To  soil  her  name  between  : 


180  BALLAD. 

A  king  might  lay  his  sceptre  down, 
But  I  am  poor  and  naught, 

The  brow  should  wear  a  golden  crown 
That  wears  her  in  its  thought. 

The  diamonds  glancing  in  her  hair, 
^  Whose  sudden  beams  surprise, 
Might  bid  such  humble  hopes  beware 

The  glancing  of  her  eyes ; 
Yet  looking  once.  I  looked  too  long, 

And  if  my  love  is  sin. 
Death  follows  on  the  heels  of  wrong. 

And  kills  the  crime  within. 

Her  dress  seemed  wove  of  lily  leaves, 

It  was  so  pure  and  fine, 
0  lofty  wears,  and  lowly  weaves. 

But  hoddan  gray  is  mine ; 
And  homely  hose  must  step  apart, 

Where  gartered  princes  stand. 
But  may  he  wear  my  love  at  heart 

That  wins  her  lily  hand  I 

Alas!  there  "s  far  from  russet  frize 

To  silks  and  satin  gowns. 
But  I  doubt  if  God  made  like  degrees 

In  courtly  hearts  and  clowns. 
My  father  wronged  a  maiden's  mirth, 

And  brought  her  cheeks  to  blame, 
And  all  that  "s  lordly  of  my  birth 

Is  my  reproach  and  shame  ! 

"Tis  vain  to  weep. —  't  is  vain  to  sigh, 
'Tis  vain  this  idle  speech. 

For  where  her  happy  pearls  do  lie 
My  tears  may  never  reach ; 


THE   WATER  LADY.  18 1 

Yet  when  I  'm  gone,  e'en  lofty  pride 

May  say  of  what  has  been, 
His  love  was  nobly  born  and  died, 

Though  all  the  rest  was  mean  ! 

My  speech  is  rude, —  but  speech  is  weak 

Such  love  as  mine  to  tell, 
Yet  had  I  words,  I  dare  not  speak, 

So,  lady,  fare  thee  well ; 
I  will  not  wish  thy  better  state 

Was  one  of  low  degree. 
But  I  must  weep  that  partial  fate 

Made  such  a  chm-1  of  me. 


THE   WATER  LADY. 

Alas  !  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  !  ■ 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair  was  she  ! 

I  staid  a  while,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

I  staid  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore  in  place  of  red 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

I  staid  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing ; 
The  watei-s  closed  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 
16 


182  THE  EXILE. 

And  still  I  staid  a  little  more  ; 
Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ! 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine  ; 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she  's  divine  ! 


THE  EXILE. 

The  swallow  with  summer 

Will  wing  o'er  the  seas, 
The  wind  that  I  sigh  to 

Will  visit  thy  trees, 
The  ship  that  it  hastens 

Thy  ports  will  contain, 
But  me  —  I  must  never 

See  England  again  ! 

There 's  many  that  weep  there^ 

But  one  weeps  alone, 
For  the  tears  that  are  fjilling 

So  far  from  her  own  ; 
So  far  from  thy  own,  lov6, 

We  know  not  our  pain  ; 
K  death  is  between  us, 

Or  only  the  main. 

When  the  white  cloud  reclines 
On  the  verge  of  the  sea, 

I  fancy  the  white  cliffs, 
And  di-eam  upon  thee ; 


TO    AN    ABSENTEE. SONG.  183 


But  the  cloud  spread  its  wings 
To  the  blue  heaven  and  flies. 

We  never  shall  meet,  love, 
Except  in  the  skies  ! 


TO   AN   ABSENTEE. 


O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  distant  sea. 
Through  all  the  miles  that  stretch  between, 
My  thought  must  fly  to  rest  on  thee, 
And  would,  though  worlds  should  intervene. 

Nay,  thou  art  now  so  dear,  methinks 
The  further  we  are  forced  apart, 
Aflbction's  firm  elastic  links 
But  bind  the  closer  round  the  heart. 

For  now  we  sever  each  from  each, 
I  learn  what  I  have  lost  in  thee  ; 
Alas  !  that  nothing  less  could  teach 
How  great  indeed  my  love  should  be  ! 

Farewell !  I  did  not  know  thy  worth  ; 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  'tis  prized: 
So  angels  walked  unknown  on  earth. 
But  when  they  flew  were  recognized  ! 


SONG. 


The  stars  are  with  the  voyager 

Wherever  he  may  sail ; 
The  moon  is  constant  to  her  time ; 

The  sun  will  never  fail ; 


184  ODE    TO    THE    MOON. 

But  follow,  follow  round  the  world, 
The  gi-een  earth  and  the  sea : 

So  love  is  with  the  lover's  heart, 
Wherever  he  may  be. 

THierever  he  may  be.  the  stars 

Must  daily  lose  their  light ; 
The  moon  will  veil  her  in  the  shade ; 

The  sun  will  set  at  night. 
The  sun  may  set,  but  constant  love 

Will  shine  when  he  's  away ; 
So  that  dull  night  is  never  night, 

And  day  is  brighter  day. 


ODE  TO   THE  MOON. 

MOTHEK  of  light !  how  fairly  dost  thou  go 
Over  those  hoary  crests,  divinely  led !  — 
Art  thou  that  huntress  of  the  silver  bow 
Fabled  of  old  1     Or  rather  dost  thou  tread 
Those  cloudy  summits  thence  to  gaze  below, 
Like  the  wild  chamois  from  her  Alpine  snow, 
Where  hunter  never  climbed, —  secure  from  dread  ] 
How  many  antique  fancies  have  I  read 
Of  that  mild  pr^ence  !  and  how  many  wrought ! 

Wondi'ous  and  bright, 

Upon  the  silver  light. 
Chasing  fair  figures  with  the  artist,  Thought ! 

What  art  thou  like  ?  —  sometimes  I  see  thee  ride 
A  far-bound  galley  on  its  perilous  way, 
Whilst  breezy  waves  toss  up  their  silvery  spray :  — 
Sometimes  behold  thee  glide, 


ODE   TO   THE   MOON.  18o 

Clustered  by  all  thy  family  of  stars, 

Like  a  lone  widow,  through  the  welkin  wide, 

Whose  pallid  cheek  the  midnight  sorrow  mars ;  — 

Sometimes  I  watch  thee  ou  from  steep  to  steep, 

Timidly  lighted  by  thy  vestal  torch, 

Till  in  some  Latmian  cave  I  see  thee  creep, 

To  catch  the  young  Endymion  asleep, — 

Leaving  thy  splendor  at  the  jagged  porch  !  — 

0,  thou  art  beautiful,  howe'er  it  be  ! 
Huntress,  or  Dian,  or  whatever  named ; 
And  he,  the  veriest  Pagan,  that  first  framed 
A  silver  idol,  and  ne"er  worshipped  thee  !  — 
It  is  too  late,  or  thou  shouldst  have  my  knee ; 
Too  late  now  for  the  old  Ephesiau  vows, 
And  not  divine  the  crescent  on  thy  brows  !  — 
Yet,  call  thee  nothing  but  the  mere  mild  moon, 

Behind  those  chestnut  boughs. 
Casting  their  dappled  shadows  at  my  feet ; 
I  will  be  grateful  for  that  simple  boon, 
In  many  a  thoughtful  verse  and  anthem  sweet, 
And  bless  thy  dainty  face  whene'er  we  meet. 

In  nights  far  gone,—  ay,  far  away  and  dead,— 
Before  Care-fretted  with  a  lidless  eye,— 
I  was  thy  wooer  on  my  little  bed. 
Letting  the  early  houi's  of  rest  go  by, 
To  see°thee  flood  the  heaven  with  milky  light, 
And  feed  thy  snow-white  swans,  before  I  slept ; 
For  thou  wert  then  purveyor  of  my  dreams,— 
Thou  wert  the  fairies'  armorer,  that  kept 
Their  burnished  helms,  and  crowns,  and  corselets  bright; 
Their  spears  and  glittering  mails  ; 
16* 


186  ODE    TO    THE    MOON. 

And  ever  thou  didst  spill  in  winding  streams 

Sparkles  and  midnight  gleams, 
For  fishes  to  new  gloss  their  argent  scales  !  — 

Why  sighs  ?  —  why  creeping  tears 7  —  why  clasped  hands  7  - 

Is  it  to  count  the  boy's  expended  dower  7 

That  fairies  since  have  broke  their  gifted  wands  7 

That  young  Delight,  like  any  o'erblown  flower. 

Gave,  one  by  one,  its  sweet  leaves  to  the  gi'ound  7  — 

Why  then,  fair  Moon,  for  all  thou  mark'st  no  hour, 

Thou  art  a  sadder  dial  to  old  Time 

Than  ever  I  have  found 
On  sunny  garden-plot,  or  moss-grown  tower, 
Mottoed  with  stern  and  melancholy  rhyme. 

Why  should  I  grieve  for  this  7  —  0  1  must  yearn, 

Whilst  Time,  conspirator  with  Memory, 

Keeps  his  cold  ashes  in  an  ancient  urn. 

Richly  embossed  with  childhood's  revelry, 

With  leaves  and  clustered  fruits,  and  flowers  eterne^  — 

(Eternal  to  the  world,  though  not  to  me,) 

Aye  there  will  those  brave  sports  and  blossoms  be, 

The  deathless  wreath,  and  undecayed  festoon. 

When  I  am  hearsed  within, — 
Less  than  the  pallid  primrose  to  the  moon, 
That  now  she  watches  through  a  vapor  thin. 

So  let  it  be  :  —  Before  I  lived  to  sigh. 
Thou  wert  in  Avon,  and  a  thousand  rills, 
Beautiful  orb  !  and  so,  whene'er  I  lie 
Trodden,  thou  wilt  be  gazing  from  thy  hills. 
Blest  be  thy  loving  light,  where'er  it  spills, 
And  blessed  thy  fail-  face,  0  mother  mild  ! 
Still  shine,  the  soul  of  rivers  as  they  run, 


ir 


TO 


tm 


Still  lend  thy  lonely  lamp  to  lovers  fond, 
And  blend  their  plighted  shadows  into  one  :  — 
Still  smile  at  even  ou  the  bedded  child, 
And  close  his  eyelids  with  thy  silver  wand ! 


TO 


Welcome,  dear  heart,  and  a  most  kind  good-morrow  , 
The  day  is  gloomy,  but  our  looks  shall  shuie :  — 
Flowers  I  have  none  to  give  thee,  but  I  borrow 
Their  sweetness  in  a  verse  to  speak  for  thine. 
Here  are  red  roses,  gathered  at  thy  cheeks, — 
The  white  were  all  too  happy  to  look  white  : 
For  love  the  rose,  for  faith  the  lily  speaks ; 
It  withers  in  false  hands,  but  here  'tis  bright ! 

Dost  love  sweet  hyacinth  1    Its  scented  leaf 
Curls  manifold,—  all  love's  delights  blow  double : 
'T  is  said  this  floweret  is  inscribed  with  grief, — 
But  let  that  hint  of  a  forgotten  trouble. 

I  plucked  the  primrose  at  night's  dewy  noon ; 
Like  Hope,  it  showed  its  blossoms  in  the  night ;  — 
'T  was  like  Endymion,  watching  for  the  moon ! 
And  here  are  sunflowers,  amorous  of  light ! 

These  golden  buttercups  are  April's  seal, — 
The  daisy  stars  her  constellations  be  : 
These  grew  so  lowly,  I  was  forced  to  kneel, 
Therefore  I  pluck  no  daisies  but  for  thee  ! 

Here 's  daisies  for  the  morn,  primrose  for  gloom, 
Pansies  and  roses  for  the  noontide  hours :  — 
A  wight  once  made  a  dial  of  their  bloom, — 
So  may  thy  life  be  measured  out  by  flowers  ! 


188  THE   FORSAKEN. —  AUTUMN. 

THE   FORSAKEN. 

The  dead  are  in  their  silent  graves, 
And  the  dew  is  cold  above, 
And  the  living  weep  and  sigh 
Over  dust  that  once  was  love. 

Once  I  only  wept  the  dead, 
But  now  the  living  cause  my  pain : 
How  couldst  thou  steal  me  from  my  tears, 
To  leave  me  to  my  tears  again  1 

My  mother  rests  beneath  the  sod, — 
Her  rest  is  calm  and  very  deep  : 
I  wished  that  she  could  see  our  loves, — 
But  now  I  gladden  in  her  sleep. 

Last  night  unbound  my  raven  locks. 
The  morning  saw  them  turned  to  gray. 
Once  they  were  black  and  well  beloved, 
But  thou  art  changed, —  and  so  are  they  ! 

The  useless  lock  I  gave  thee  once. 

To  gaze  upon  and  think  of  me, 

Was  ta'en  with  smiles, —  but  this  was  torn 

In  sorrow  that  I  send  to  thee. 


AUTUMN. 


The  Autumn  is  old, 
The  sere  leaves  are  flying ; 
He  hath  gathered  up  gold, 
And  now  he  is  dying ;  — 
Old  age,  begin  sighing  ! 


ODE   TO   MELANCHOLY.  189 

The  vintage  is  ripe, 
The  harvest  is  heaping  ;  — 
But  some  that  have  sowed 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping  ;  — 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a  weeping  ! 

The  year 's  in  the  wane, 
There  is  nothing  adorning, 
The  night  has  no  eve, 
And  the  day  has  no  morning ;  — 
Cold  winter  gives  warning. 

The  rivers  run  chill, 

The  red  sun  is  sinking. 

And  I  am  grown  old, 

And  life  is  fast  shrinking ;  — 

Here 's  enow  for  sad  thinking ! 


ODE    TO    MELANCHOLY. 

Come,  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts, 
Like  Philomel,  against  the  thorn, 
To  aggravate  the  inward  grief. 
That  makes  her  accents  so  forlorn  ; 
The  world  h;\3  many  cruel  points. 
Whereby  our  bosoms  have  been  torn. 
And  there  are  dainty  themes  of  grief, 
In  sadness  to  outlast  the  morn, — 
True  honor's  dearth,  affection's  death. 
Neglectful  pride,  and  cankering  scorn, 
With  all  the  piteous  tales  that  tears 
Have  watered  since  the  world  was  l^orn. 


190  ODE  TO    MELANCHOLY. 

The  ■world  !  — it  is  a  mlderness, 
Where  tears  are  hung  on  every  tree ; 
For  thus  my  gloomy  fantasy 
Makes  all  things  weep  with  me  ! 
Come  let  us  sit  and  watch  the  sky, 
And  fency  clouds  where  no  clouds  be  ; 
Grief  is  enough  to  blot  the  eye, 
And  make  heaven  black  with  misery. 
Why  should  birds  sing  such  merry  notes, 
Unless  they  were  more  blest  than  we  7 
No  sorrow  ever  chokes  their  throats, 
Except  sweet  nightingale  ;  for  she 
Was  born  to  pain  our  hearts  the  more 
With  her  sad  melody. 
Why  shines  the  sun.  except  that  he 
Makes  gloomy  nooks  for  Grief  to  hide, 
And  pensive  shades  for  [Melancholy, 
When  all  the  earth  is  bright  beside  1 
Let  clay  wear  smiles,  and  green  grass  wavCj 
Mirth  shall  not  win  us  back  again. 
Whilst  man  is  made  of  his  own  grave, 
And  fairest  clouds  but  gilded  rain  ! 

I  saw  my  mother  in  her  shroud. 
Her  cheek  was  cold  and  very  pale ; 
And  ever  since  I  ve  looked  on  all 
As  creatures  doomed  to  fail ! 
Why  do  buds  ope,  except  to  die  ? 
Ay,  let  us  watch  the  roses  wither, 
And  think  of  our  loves'  cheeks  ; 
And,  0.  how  quickly  time  doth  fly 
To  bring  death's  winter  hither  ! 
Minutes,  hours,  days,  and  weeks. 


ODE   TO    MELANCHOLY. 


191 


Months,  years,  and  ages,  shrink  to  naught ; 
An  age  past  is  but  a  thought  ! 

Ay,  let  us  think  of  him  a  while, 

That,  with  a  coflBn  for  a  boat. 

Rows  daily  o'er  the  Stygian  moat, 

And  for  our  table  choose  a  tomb : 

There  's  dark  enough  in  any  skull 

To  charge  with  black  a  raven  plume  ; 

And  for  the  saddest  funeral  thoughts 

A  winding-sheet  hath  ample  room, 

Where  Death,  with  his  keen-pointed  style, 

Hath  writ  the  common  doom. 

How  wide  the  yew-tree  spreads  its  gloom, 

And  o'er  the  dead  lets  fill  its  dew, 

As  if  in  tears  it  wept  for  them, 

The  many  human  fiimilies 

That  sleep  around  its  stem  ! 

How  cold  the  dead  have  made  these  stones, 

With  natural  di-ops  kept  ever  wet ! 

Lo  !  here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world 

Doth  now  remember  or  forget, 

Ai*e  in  one  common  ruin  hurled, 

And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met ; 

The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone, 

The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 

Is 't  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls. 

And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 

Our  love  upon  a  rose's  leaf. 

Our  hearts  upon  a  violet  ? 

Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 

Beforehand  we  must  fret : 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again ; 


192  ODE    TO    MELAXCHOLT. 

But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  love, 
And  vratch  the  mould  in  vain. 

0  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 

And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss ; 

For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 

A  thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this : 

Forgive,  if  somewhile  I  forget. 

In  woe  to  come,  the  present  hliss. 

As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 

Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 

Even  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 

The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shade, 

And  there  is  even  a  happiness 

That  makes  the  heart  afraid  ! 

Now  let  us  with  a  spell  invoke 

The  full-orbed  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes  ; 

Not  bright,  not  bright,  but,  with  a  cloud 

Lapped  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 

All  pale  and  dim.  as  if  ffom  rest 

The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 

Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  moon  !  she  is  the  source  of  sighs, 

The  very  face  to  make  us  sad ; 

If  but  to  think  in  other  times 

The  same  calm  quiet  look  she  had. 

As  if  the  world  held  nothincr  base, 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad ; 

The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in  streams, 

The  fairy  lamp  that  charmed  the  lad ; 

For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 

She  taunts  men's  brains,  and  makes  them  mad. 

All  things  are  touched  with  melancholy. 

Born  of  the  secret  souls  mistrust, 


SONNETS.  195 

To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weighed  down  with  vile  deorraded  dust ; 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 
Like  the  sAveet  blossoms  of  the  May, 
Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 
0,  give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 
Her  sighs  and  tears,  and  musings  holy  ! 
There  is  no  music  in  the  life 
That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely  ; 
There  's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 
But  has  its  chord  in  Melancholy. 


SONNETS. 

WKITTEN   IN   A   VOLUME    OF   SHAKSPEARE, 

How  bravely  Autumn  paints  upon  the  sky 
The  gorgeous  fame  of  Summer  which  is  fled ! 
Hues  of  all  flowers  that  in  their  ashes  lie, 
Trophied  in  that  fair  light  whereon  they  fed, 
Tulip,  and  hyacinth,  and  sweet  rose  red, — 
Like  exhalations  from  the  leafy  mould, 
Look  here  how  honor  glorifies  the  dead, 
And  warms  their  scutcheons  with  a  glance  of  gold 
Such  is  the  memory  of  poets  old. 
Who  on  Parnassus'  hill  have  bloomed  elate  ; 
Now  they  are  laid  under  their  marbles  cold, 
And  turned  to  clay,  whereof  they  were  create ; 
But  god  Apollo  hath  them  all  enrolled. 
And  blazoned  on  the  very  clouds  of  fate  ! 
17 


194  SONNETS. 


TO    FANCY. 


Most  delicate  Ariel !  submissive  thing, 
Won  by  the  mind's  high  magic  to  its  hest, — 
Invisible  embassy,  or  secret  guest, — 
Weighing  the  light  air  on  a  lighter  wing ;  — 
Whether  into  the  midnight  moon,  to  bring 
Illuminate  visions  to  the  eye  of  rest, — 
Or  rich  romances  from  the  florid  West, — 
Or  to  the  sea,  for  mystic  whispering, — 
Still  by  thy  charmed  allegiance  to  the  will 
The  fruitful  wishes  prosper  in  the  brain, 
As  by  the  fingering  of  fairy  skill, — 
Moonlight,  and  waters,  and  soft  music's  strain, 
Odors,  and  blooms,  and  my  Miranda's  smile, 
Making  this  dull  world  an  enchanted  isle. 


TO    AN    ENTHUSIAST. 

Young  ardent  soul,  graced  with  fair  Nature's  truth, 
Spring  warmth  of  heart,  and  fervency  of  mind. 
And  still  a  large  late  love  of  all  thy  kind. 
Spite  of  the  world's  cold  practice  and  Time's  tooth, 
For  all  these  gifts,  I  know  not,  in  fair  sooth, 
Whether  to  give  thee  joy,  or  bid  thee  blind 
Thine  eyes  with  tears, —  that  thou  hast  not  resigned 
The  passionate  fire  and  freshness  of  thy  youth  : 
For  as  the  current  of  thy  life  shall  flow. 
Gilded  by  shine  of  sun  or  shadow-stained, 
Through  flowery  valley  or  unwholesome  fen, 
Thrice  blessed  in  thy  joy,  or  in  thy  woe 
Thrice  cursed  of  thy  race, —  thou  art  ordained 
To  share  beyond  the  lot  of  common  men. 


SONNETS. 


196 


It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 

This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight ; 

That  sometime  these  bi'ight  stars,  that  now  reply 

In  sunlio;ht  to  the  sun.  shall  set  in  nio-ht : 

That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 

And  all  life's  ruddj  springs  forget  to  flow  ; 

That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  spright 

Be  lapped  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below  ; 

It  is  not  death  to  know  this, —  but  to  know 

That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 

In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 

So  duly  and  so  oft, —  and  when  grass  waves 

Over  the  past-away,  there  may  be  then 

No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


By  every  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts, 

Graven  by  Time,  in  love  with  his  own  lore ; 

By  all  old  martyrdoms  and  antique  smarts, 

Wherein  Love  died  to  be  alive  the  more ; 

Yea,  by  the  sad  impression  on  the  shore 

Left  by  the  drowned  Leander,  to  endear 

That  coast  forever,  where  the  billows'  roar 

Moaneth  for  pity  in  the  poet's  ear ; 

By  Hero's  faith,  and  the  foreboding  tear 

That  quenched  her  brand's  last  twinkle  in  its  fall ; 

By  Sappho's  leap,  and  the  low  rustling  fear 

That  sighed  around  her  flight ;   I  swear  by  all, 

The  world  shall  find  such  pattern  in  my  act, 

As  if  Love's  great  examples  still  were  lacked. 


LL 


^ 


196  SONNETS. 


ON    RECEIVINa   A    GIFT. 


Look  how  the  golden  ocean  shines  above 

Its  pebbly  stones,  and  magnifies  their  girth  : 

So  does  the  bright  and  blessed  light  of  love 

Its  own  things  glorify,  and  raise  their  worth. 

As  weeds  seem  flowers  beneath  the  flattering  brine, 

And  stones  like  gems,  and  gems  as  gems  indeed, 

Even  so  our  tokens  shine ;  nay,  they  outshine 

Pebbles  and  pearls,  and  gems  and  coral  weed  ; 

For  where  be  ocean  waves  but  half  so  clear. 

So  calmly  constant,  and  so  kindly  warm, 

As  Love's  most  mild  and  glowing  atmosphere, 

That  hath  no  dregs  to  be  upturned  by  storm  7 

Thus,  sweet,  thy  gracious  gifts  are  gifts  of  price, 

And  more  than  gold  to  doting  Avarice. 


SILENCE. 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound 

There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be. 

In  the  cold  grave  —  under  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found, 

Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound  , 

No  voice  is  hushed  —  no  life  treads  silently, 

But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 

That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground : 

But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate^alls 

Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been, 

Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyena,  calls, 

And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between. 

Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, 

There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 


SONNETS.  19t 

The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all 

Though  I  inherit  in  this  feverish  life 

Of  worldly  toil,  vain  wishes,  and  hard  strife, 

And  fruitless  thought,  in  Care"s  eternal  thrall. 

Yet  more  sweet  honey  than  of  bittei'  gall 

I  taste,  through  thee,  my  Eva,  my  sweet  wife. 

Then  what  was  Plan's  lost  Paradise  !  —  how  rife 

Of  bliss,  since  love  is  with  him  in  his  fall ! 

Such  as  our  own  pure  passion  still  might  frame, 

Of  this  fair  earth,  and  its  delightful  bowers, 

If  no  fell  sorrow,  like  the  serpent,  came 

To  trail  its  venom  o'er  the  sweetest  flowers :  — 

But,  0  !  as  many  and  such  tears  are  ours, 

As  only  should  be  shed  for  guilt  and  shame  ! 


Love,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would  speak, 
Lives  not  within  the  humor  of  the  eye ;  — 
Not  being  but  an  outward  fantasy. 
That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted  cheek  — 
Else  it  would  wane  with  beauty,  and  grow  weak, 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer, —  and  so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that  die, 
Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give  and  seek,  • 
Whose  healtk  is  of  no  hue  —  to  feel  decay 
With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy  prime. 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  alway, 
And  takes  new  lustre  from  the  touch  of  time ; 
Its  bough  owns  no  December  and  no  May, 
But  bears  its  blossom  into  Winter's  clime. 
17* 


198  THE    LAST   MAN. 


"  THE   LAST   MAN." 


'T  WAS  in  the  year  two  thousand  and  one, 

A  pleasant  morning  of  May, 

I  sat  on  the  gallows-ti'ee  all  alone; 

A  chanting  a  merry  lay. — 

To  think  how  the  pest  had  spared  my  life, 

To  sing  with  the  lai-ks  that  day  ! 

When  up  the  heath  came  a  jolly  knave. 
Like  a  scarecrow,  all  in  rags  : 
It  made  me  crow  to  see  his  old  duds 
All  abroad  in  the  wind,  like  flags  :  — 
So  up  he  came  to  the  timbers"  foot 
And  pitched  down  his  greasy  bags. — 

Good  Lord !  how  blithe  the  old  beggar  was 

At  pulling  out  his  scraps, — 

The  very  sight  of  his  broken  orts 

Made  a  work  in  his  wi'inkled  chaps  : 

'•  Come  down,"  says  he,  "you  Newgate-bird, 

And  have  a  taste  of  my  snaps  ! '' 

Then  down  the  rope,  like  a  tai"  from  the  mast, 

I  slided,  and  by  him  stood ; 

But  I  wished  myself  on  the  gallows  again 

When  I  smelt  that  beggar's  food. — 

A  foul  beef-bone  and  a  mouldy  crust ;  — 

'•  0  !  "  quoth  he.  '■  the  heavens  are  good  !  " 

Then  after  this  gi-ace  he  cast  him  down. 

Says  I.  "  You  "11  get  sweeter  air 

A  pace  or  two  off,  on  the  windward  side," — 

For  the  felons'  bones  lay  there. — 

But  he  only  laughed  at  the  empty  skulls, 

And  offered  them  part  of  his  fai-e. 


THE   LAST  MAN.  199 

'•  I  never  liarmed  them,  and  they  Avon't  harm  me : 

Let  the  proud  and  the  rich  be  cravens  !  " 

I  did  not  like  that  strancre  beo-^ar  man, 

He  looked  so  up  at  the  heavens. 

Anon  he  shook  out  his  empty  old  poke ; 

'•  There  "s  the  crumbs/'  saith  he,  '•  for  the  ravens  !  " 

It  made  me  angiy  to  see  his  face, 

It  had  such  a  jesting  look  ; 

But  -^vhile  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak, 

A  small  case-bottle  he  took ; 

Quoth  he,  "  Though  I  gather  the  green  water-cress, 

My  (.h-iuk  is  not  of  the  brook  ! '' 

Full  manners-like  he  tendered  the  dram  : 

0,  it  came  of  a  dainty  cask  ! 

But,  whenever  it  came  to  his  turn  to  pull, 

'  ■  Your  leave,  good  sir,  I  must  ask ; 

But  I  always  wipe  the  brim  with  my  sleeve, 

When  a  hangman  sups  at  my  flask  !  " 

And  then  he  laughed  so  loudly  and  lonof, 

The  churl  was  quite  out  of  breath  ; 

I  thought  the  very  Old  One  was  come 

To  mock  me  before  my  death. 

And  wished  I  had  buried  the  dead  men's  bones 

That  were  lying  about  the  heath  ! 

But  the  beggar  gave  me  a  jolly  clap  — 
"  Come,  let  us  pledge  each  other, 
For  all  the  wide  world  is  dead  beside. 
And  we  are  brother  and  brother  — 
I  've  a  yearning  for  thee  in  my  heart. 
As  if  we  had  come  of  one  mother. 


200  THE  LAST  MAN. 

'•  I  've  a  yearning  for  thee  in  my  heart, 
That  almost  makes  me  weep, 
For  as  I  passed  from  town  to  town 
The  folks  were  all  stone-asleep, — 
But  when  I  saw  thee  sitting  aloft, 
It  made  me  both  laugh  and  leap  !  " 

Now  a  curse  (I  thought)  be  on  his  love, 

And  a  curse  upon  his  mirth, — 

An'  it  were  not  for  that  beggar  man 

I  'd  be  the  king  of  the  earth, — 

But  I  promised  myself  an  hour  should  oome 

To  make  him  rue  his  birth  !  — 

So  down  we  sat  and  boused  again 

Till  the  sun  was  in  mid-sky. 

When,  just  when  the  gentle  west- wind  came, 

We  hearkened  a  dismal  cry  ; 

"Up,  up,  on  the  tree,"  quoth  the  beggar  man, 

"  Till  these  horrible  dogs  go  by !  " 

And,  lo  !  from  the  forest's  far-off  skirts 

They  came  all  yelling  for  gore, 

A  hundred  hounds  pursuing  at  once, 

And  a  panting  hart  before, 

Till  he  sunk  adown  at  the  gallows'  foot, 

And  there  his  haunches  they  tore  ! 

His  haunches  they  tore,  without  a  horn 
To  tell  when  the  chase  was  done ; 
And  there  was  not  a  single  scarlet  coat 
To  flaunt  it  in  the  sun  !  — 
I  turned,  and  looked  at  the  beggar  man. 
And  his  tears  dropt  one  by  one ! 


THE   LAST   MAN.  201 

And  with  curses  sore  he  chid  at  the  hounds, 

Till  the  last  dropt  out  of  sight ; 

Anon,  saith  he,  ''  Let  "s  down  again, 

And  ramble  for  our  delight, 

For  the  world  's  all  free,  and  we  may  choose 

A  right  cose  J  barn  for  to-night !  " 

With  that,  he  set  up  his  staff  on  end, 
And  it  fell  with  the  point  due  west ; 
So  we  fared  that  way  to  a  city  great 
Where  the  folks  had  died  of  the  pest  — 
It  was  fine  to  enter  in  house  and  hall, 
Wherever  it  liked  me  best ;  — 

For  the  porters  all  were  stiff  and  cold, 

And  could  not  lift  their  heads  ; 

And  when  he  came  where  their  masters  lay, 

The  rats  leapt  out  of  the  beds  :  — 

The  grandest  palaces  in  the  land 

Were  as  free  as  workhouse  sheds. 

But  the  beggar  man  made  a  mumping  face, 

And  knocked  at  every  gate  : 

It  made  me  curse  to  hear  how  he  whined ; 

So  our  fellowship  turned  to  hate, 

And  I  bade  him  walk  the  world  by  himself, 

For  I  scorned  so  humble  a  mate  ! 


So  he  turned  right  and  /  turned  left, 

As  if  we  had  never  met ; 

And  I  chose  a  fair  stone  house  for  myself, 

For  the  city  was  all  to  let ; 

And  for  three  brave  holidays  drank  my  fill 

Of  the  choicest  that  I  could  get. 


202  THE   LAST   MAN. 

And  because  my  jerkin  was  coarse  and  worn, 

I  got  me  a  properer  vest ; 

It  was  purple  velvet,  stitched  o'er  with  gold, 

And  a  shining  star  at  the  breast, — 

'T  was  enough  to  fetch  old  Joan  from  her  grave 

To  see  me  so  purely  drest !  — 

But  Joan  was  dead  and  under  the  mould, 

And  every  buxom  lass ; 

In  vain  I  watched  at  the  window-pane, 

For  a  Christian  soul  to  pass  ;  — 

But  sheep  and  kine  wandered  up  the  street. 

And  browsed  on  the  new-come  grass. — 

When,  lo  !  I  spied  the  old  beggar  man, 
And  lustily  he  did  sing  !  — 
His  rags  were  lapped  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 
And  a  crown  he  had  like  a  king ; 
So  he  stept  right  up  before  my  gate 
And  danced  me  a  saucy  fling  ! 

Heaven  mend  us  all !  —  but,  within  my  mind 
I  had  killed  him  then  and  there  ; 
To  see  him  lording  so  braggart-like 
That  was  born  to  his  beggar's  fare, 
And  how  he  had  stolen  the  royal  crown 
His  betters  were  meant  to  wear. 

But  God  forbid  that  a  thief  should  die, 

Without  his  share  of  the  laws  ! 

So  I  nimbly  whipt  my  tackle  out, 

And  soon  tied  up  his  claws, — 

I  was  judge  myself,  and  jury,  and  all. 

And  solemnly  tried  the  cause. 


r 


THE   LAST   MAN.  203 

But  the  beggar  man  would  not  plead,  but  cried 

Like  a  babe  without  its  corals, 

For  he  knew  how  hard  it  is  apt  to  go 

When  the  law  and  a  thief  have  quarrels, — 

There  was  not  a  Christian  soul  alive 

To  speak  a  word  for  his  morals. 

0,  how  gayly  I  doffed  mj  costly  gear, 

And  put  on  my  work-day  clothes ; 

I  was  tired  of  such  a  long  Sunday  life, — 

And  never  was  one  of  the  sloths  ; 

But  the  beggar  man  grumbled  a  weary  deal, 

And  made  many  crooked  mouths. 

So  I  hauled  him  off  to  the  gallows'  foot. 

And  blinded  him  in  his  bags  ; 

'T  was  a  weary  job  to  heave  him  up, 

For  a  doomed  man  always  lags  ; 

But  by  ten  of  the  clock  he  was  off  his  legs 

In  the  wind,  and  airino;  his  rags  ! 

So  there  he  hung,  and  there  I  stood. 

The  last  man  left  alive, 

To  have  my  own  will  of  all  the  earth : 

Quoth  I,  now  I  shall  thrive  ! 

But  when  was  ever  honey  made 

With  one  bee  in  a  hive  7 

My  conscience  began  to  gnaw  my  heart. 

Before  the  day  was  done, 

For  the  other  men's  lives  had  all  gone  out, 

Like  candles  in  the  sun  !  — 

But  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  broke,  at  last, 

A  thousand  necks  in  one  ! 


204  THE   LAST  MAN. 

So  I  went  and  cut  his  body  down, 

To  bury  it  decently  ;  — 

God  send  there  were  any  good  soul  alive 

To  do  the  like  by  me  ! 

But  the  wild  dogs  came  with  terrible  speed, 

And  bayed  me  up  the  tree  ! 

My  sight  was  like  a  drunkard's  sight, 
And  my  head  began  to  swim, 
To  see  their*  jaws  all  white  with  foam, 
Like  the  ravenous  ocean-brim :  — 
But  when  the  wild  dogs  trotted  away 
Their  jaws  were  bloody  and  grim  ! 

Their  jaws  were  bloody  and  grim,  good  Lord  ! 

But  the  beggar  man,  where  was  he  7  — 

There  was  naught  of  him  but  some  ribbons  of  raga 

Below  the  gallows-tree  !  — 

I  know  the  devil,  when  I  am  dead, 

Will  send  his  hounds  for  me  !  — 

I  've  buried  my  babies  one  by  one. 
And  dug  the  deep  hole  for  Joan, 
And  covered  the  faces  of  kith  and  kin, 
And  felt  the  old  church-yard  stone 
Go  cold  to  my  heart,  full  many  a  time, 
But  I  never  felt  so  lone  ! 

For  the  lion  and  Adam  were  company, 
And  the  tiger  him  beguiled  ; 
But  the  simple  kine  are  foes  to  my  life, 
And  the  household  brutes  are  wild. 
If  the  veriest  cur  would  lick  my  hand, 
I  could  love  it  like  a  child ! 


THE   LEE   SnOKE.  20' 

And  the  beggar  man's  ghost  besets  my  dream, 

At  night,  to  make  me  madder, — 

And  my  wretched  conscience,  within  my  breast, 

Is  like  a  stinging  adder ;  — 

I  sigh  when  I  pass  the  gallows'  foot, 

And  look  at  the  rope  and  ladder  ! 

For  hanging  looks  sweet, —  but,  alas  !  in  vain 

My  desperate  fancy  begs, — 

I  must  turn  my  cup  of  sorrows  quite  up, 

And  drink  it  to  the  dregs, — 

For  there  is  not  another  man  alive, 

In  the  world,  to  pull  my  legs  ! 


THE  LEE  SHORE. 


Sleet  !  and  hail !  and  thunder ! 

And  ye  winds  that  rave, 
Till  the  sands  thereunder 

Tinge  the  sullen  wave  — 

Winds,  that  like  a  demon 
Howl  with  horrid  note 

Round  the  toiling  seaman, 
In  his  tossing  boat  — 

From  his  humble  dwelling 

On  the  shingly  shore, 
Where  the  billows  swelling 

Keep  such  hollow  roar  — 

From  that  weepmg  woman, 
Seeking  with  her  cries 
18 


206  THE    DEATH-BED. 

Succor  superhuman 

From  the  frowning  skies  — 

From  the  urchin  pining 
For  his  father's  knee  — 

From  the  lattice  shining, 
Drive  him  out  to  sea  ! 

Let  broad  leagues  dissever 
Him  from  yonder  foam ;  — 

0,  God  !  to  think  man  ever 
Comes  too  near  his  home  ! 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

Ai.d  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours.     . 


LINES. — TO    MY   DAUGHTER.  2'l' 


LINES 

ON   SEEING    MY    WIFE   AND    TWO  CHILDREN    SLEEPING    IN    THE    SAME 
CnAMBER. 

And  has  the  earth  lost  its  so  spacious  round. 
The  sky  its  blue  circumference  above, 
That  in  this  little  chamber  there  is  found 
Both  earth  and  heaven  —  my  universe  of  love  ! 
All  that  my  God  can  give  me  or  remove, 
Here  sleeping,  save  myself,  in  mimic  death. 
Sweet  that  in  this  small  compass  I  behove 
To  live  their  living  and  to  breathe  their  breath  ! 
Almost  I  wish  that  with  one  common  sigh 
We  might  resign  all  mundane  care  and  strife, 
And  seek  together  that  transcendent  sky, 
Where  father,  mother,  children,  husband,  wife, 
Together  pant  in  everlasting  life  ! 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER, 

ON    HER    BIRTHDAY. 

Dear  Fanny  !  nine  long  years  ago. 
While  yet  the  morning  sun  was  low, 
And  rosy  with  the  eastern  glow 

The  landscape  smiled ; 
Whilst  lowed  the  newly-wakened  herds  - 
Sweet  as  the  early  song  of  birds, 
I  heard  those  first,  delightful  words, 

'•Thou  hast  a  child!" 

Along  with  that  uprising  dew 

Tears  glistened  in  my  eyes,  though  few, 

To  hail  a  dawning  quite  as  new, 


208  TO    A    CHILD. 

To  me,  as  time  : 
It  was  not  sorrow  —  not  annoy  — 
But  like  a  happy  maid,  though  coy, 
With  grief- like  welcome,  even  joy 

Forestalls  its  prime. 

So  may" St  thou  live,  dear  !  many  years, 

In  all  the  bliss  that  life  endears. 

Not  without  smiles,  nor  yet  fi-om  tears 

Too  strictly  kept : 
When  fii'st  thy  infant  littleness 
I  folded  in  my  fond  caress, 
The  greatest  proof  of  happiness 

Was  this  —  I  wept. 


TO  A  CHILD 

EMBRACING    HIS    MOTHER. 


Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again, — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes. 
And  mirror  hack  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  vrhen  they  cannot  see. 
Graze  upon  her  living  eyes  ! 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told, — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  press  in  woe. 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 


STANZAS.  209 

0,  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 
Although  it  be  not  silver-graj  ; 
Too  earlj  death,  led  on  bj  care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
0  !  revere  her  raven  hair  ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 
That  heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer, — 
For  thou  may'st  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 


STANZAS. 


Farewell  life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim : 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night  — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still. 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows  — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

Welcome  life  !  the  spirit  strives  ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn, — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom. 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold  — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould ! 

April,  1845. 

18* 


210         TO    A   FALSE   FRIEND.  —  A   POET'S   PORTION. 

TO  A  FALSE  FRIEND. 

Our  hands  have  met,  but  not  our  hearts ; 

Our  hands  will  never  meet  again. 

Friends  if  we  have  ever  been, 

Friends  we  cannot  now  remain  • 

I  onlj  know  I  loved  you  once, 

I  only  know  I  loved  in  vain ; 

Our  hands  have  met,  but  not  our  hearts ; 

Our  hands  will  never  meet  again  ! 

Then  farewell  to  heart  and  hand  ! 

I  would  our  hands  had  never  met : 

Even  the  outward  form  of  love 

Must  be  resigned  with  some  regret. 

Friends  we  still  might  seem  to  be, 

K  my  wrong  could  e'er  forget 

Our  hands  have  joined,  but  not  our  hearts ; 

I  would  our  hands  had  never  met ! 


THE  POET'S  PORTION. 

What  is  a  mine  —  a  treasury  —  a  dower  — 
A  magic  talisman  of  mighty  power  7 
A  poet's  wide  possession  of  the  earth. 
He  has  the  enjoyment  of  a  flower's  birth 
Before  its  budding  —  ere  the  first  red  streaks,- 
And  winter  cannot  rob  him  of  their  cheeks. 
Look  —  if  his  dawn  be  not  as  other  men's  ! 
Twenty  bright  flushes  —  ere  another  kens 
The  first  of  sunlight  is  abroad  —  he  sees 
Its  golden  'lection  of  the  topmost  trees, 
And  opes  the  splendid  fissures  of  the  morn. 
When  do  his  fruits  delay,  when  doth  his  corn 


SONG.  211 

Linger  for  harvesting  ?    Before  the  leaf 

Is  commonly  abroad,  in  his  piled  sheaf 

The  flagging  poppies  lose  their  ancient  flame. 

Xo  sweet  there  is.  no  pleasure  I  can  name, 

But  he  will  sip  it  first  —  before  the  lees. 

"T  is  his  to  taste  rich  honey, —  ere  the  bees 

Are  busy  with  the  brooms.     He  may  forestall 

June's  rosy  advent  for  his  coronal ; 

Before  the  expectant  buds  upon  the  bough, 

Twining  his  thoughts  to  bloom  upon  his  brow. 

0  !  blest  to  see  the  flower  in  its  seed, 

Before  its  leafy  presence ;  for  indeed 

Leaves  are  but  wingS;  on  which  the  summer  flies, 

And  each  thing  perishable  fades  and  dies, 

Escaped  in  thought :  but  his  rich  thinkings  be 

Like  overflows  of  immortality. 

So  that  what  there  is  steeped  shall  perish  never, 

But  live  and  bloom,  and  be  a  joy  forever. 


SONG. 

0  Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 

And  flowery  tapestrie : 
There  *s  living  roses  on  the  bush. 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree : 
Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tread,  but  thou  wilt  find 

The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

'T  is  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 
"When  eai-th  was  born  in  bloom ; 

The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes, 
The  an-  is  all  perfume ; 


212  TIME,    HOPE,    AND    MEMORY. 

There  's  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue 

The  very  rainbow  showers 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There  's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east. 

The  garden  of  the  sun  ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run  : 
While  Morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers  ; 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers  ! 


TDIE,   HOPE,  AXD    MEMORY. 

I  HEARD  a  gentle  maiden,  in  the  spring, 
Set  her  sweet  sighs  to  music,  and  thus  sing  : 
"  Fly  through  the  world,  and  I  will  follow  thee. 
Only  for  looks  that  may  turn  back  on  me : 

'•  Only  for  roses  that  your  chance  may  throw  — 
Though  withered  —  I  will  wear  them  on  my  brow, 
To  be  a  thoughtful  fragrance  to  my  brain  ; 
Warmed  with  such  love,  that  they  will  bloom  again. 

"  Thy  love  before  thee,  I  must  tread  behind, 
Kissing  thy  foot-prints,  though  to  me  unkind ; 
But  trust  not  all  her  fondness,  though  it  seem. 
Lest  thy  true  love  should  rest  on  a  false  dream. 

•'  •■  Her  fice  is  smiling,  and  her  voice  is  sweet : 

But  smiles  betray,  and  music  sings  deceit ; 

And  words  speak  false ;  —  yet,  if  they  welcome  prove 

I  '11  be  their  echo,  and  repeat  their  love. 


FLOWERS.  213 

"  Only  if  wakened  to  sad  truth,  at  last, 
The  bitterness  to  come,  and  sweetness  past ; 
When  thou  art  vext.  then,  turn  again,  and  see 
Thou  hast  loved  Hope,  but  Memory  loved  thee." 


FLOWERS. 


I  WILL  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turned  by  the  sun ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean, 
Whom,  therefore,  I  will  shun : 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench, 
The  violet  is  a  nun ;  — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose. 
The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 
In  too  much  haste  to  wed, 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand ; 
The  wolfsbane  I  should  dread  ;  — 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye. 
That  always  mourns  the  dead ;  — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  -white,  like  a  saint. 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me  — 

And  the  daisy's  cheek  is  tipped  with  a  blush, 

She  is  of  such  low  degree  ; 

Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves. 

And  the  broom 's  betrothed  to  the  bee ;  — 

But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 


214  TO 


TO  . 

Still  glides  the  gentle  streamlet  on. 
"With  shifting  current  new  and  strange ; 
The  water  that  was  here  is  gone. 
But  those  green  shadows  never  change. 

Serene  or  ruffled  by  the  storm. 
On  present  waves,  as  on  the  past, 
The  mirrored  grove  retains  its  form, 
The  self-same  trees  their  semblance  cast. 

The  hue  each  fleetmg  globule  wears, 
That  di-op  bequeaths  it  to  the  next ;. 
One  picture  still  the  surface  bears, 
To  illustrate  the  murmured  text. 

So;  love,  however  time  may  flow, 
Fresh  hours  pursuing  those  that  flee, 
One  constant  image  still  shall  show 
My  tide  of  life  is  true  to  thee. 


TO 


Let  us  make  a  leap,  my  dear. 
In  our  love,  of  many  a  year. 
And  date  it  very  far  away. 
On  a  bright  clear  summer  day, 
When  the  heart  was  like  a  sun 
To  itself,  and  falsehood  none  ; 
And  the  rosy  lips  a  part 
Of  the  very  loving  heart, 
And  the  shining  of  the  eye 
But  a  sign  to  know  it  by ;  — 


TO 


215 


AMien  my  faults  were  all  forgiven, 
And  ray  life  deserved  of  Heaven. 
Dearest,  let  us  reckon  so, 
And  love  for  all  that  long  ago ; 
Each  absence  count  a  year  complete, 
And  keep  a  birthday  when  we  meet. 


TO . 

I  LOVE  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

'T  is  all  that  I  can  say ;  — 
It  is  my  vision  in  the  night. 

My  di-eammg  in  the  day ; 
The  very  echo  of  my  heart. 

The  blessuag  when  I  pray  : 
I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Is  all  that  I  can  say. 

I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Is  ever  on  my  tongue  ; 
In  all  my  proudest  poesy 

That  chorus  still  is  sung  ; 
It  is  the  verdict  of  my  eyes. 

Amidst  the  gay  and  young 
I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

A  thousand  maids  among. 

I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Thy  bright  and  hazel  glance, 
The  mellow  lute  upon  those  lips. 

Whose  tender  tones  entrance ; 
But  most,  dear  heart  of  hearts,  thy  proofe 

That  still  these  words  enhance, 
I  love  thee  —  I  love  thee  ! 

Whatever  be  thy  chance. 


f 
1 

i 

i 

"21 G                SERENADE.  —  VERSES    IX    AN    ALBUM. 

SERENADE. 

Ah,  sweet,  thou  little  knowest  how 

I  wake  and  passionate  watches  keep  ; 

!                                    And  jet;  while  I  addi-ess  thee  now, 

Methinks  thou  smilest  in  thj  sleep. 

1                                    T  is  sweet  enough  to  make  me  weep. 

That  tender  thought  of  love  and  thee, 

That  while  the  world  is  hushed  so  deep, 

Thy  soul 's  perhaps  awake  to  me  ! 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  sweet  bride  of  sleep  ! 

TVith  golden  \'ision3  for  thy  dower, 

While  I  this  midnight  vigil  keep. 

And  bless  thee  in  thy  silent  bower ; 

To  me  "t  is  sweeter  than  the  power 

Of  sleep,  and  fairy  dreams  unfurled, 

That  I  alone,  at  this  still  hour, 

In  patient  love  outwatch  the  world. 

VEKSES   IN   AN   ALBUM. 

Far  above  the  hollow 

i                                                Tempest,  and  its  moan. 

Singeth  bright  Apollo 

In  his  golden  zone, — 

Cloud  doth  never  shade  him, 

Nor  a  storm  invade  him, 

!                                               On  his  joyous  throne. 

So  when  I  behold  me 

In  an  orb  as  bright. 

How  thy  soul  doth  fold  me 

BALLAD. — THE   ROMANCE    OF    COLOGNE.  217 

In  its  throne  of  light ! 
Sorrow  never  paineth 
Nor  a  care  attaineth. 
To  that  blessed  heijiht. 


BALLAD. 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 
Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 
On  early  lovers  yet ! 
0,  no  —  the  world  was  newly  crowned 
With  flowei-s  when  first  we  met. 

"T  was  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 
But  still  you  held  me  fast : 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 
We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  ! 


THE   ROJIANCE   OF   COLOGNE. 

'T  13  even  —  on  the  pleasant  banks  of  Rhine 
The  thrush  is  singing  and  the  dove  is  cooing ; 
A  youth  and  maiden  on  the  turf  recline 
Alone  —  and  he  is  wooing. 

Yet  woos  in  vain,  for  to  the  voice  of  love 
No  kindly  sympathy  the  maid  discovers, 
Though  round  them  both,  and  in  the  air  above, 
The  tender  spirit  hovers. 
19 


218  THE   KOMANCE    OF   COLOGNE. 

Untouched  by  lovely  Nature  and  her  laws, 
The  more  he  pleads,  more  coyly  she  represses  ; 
Her  lips  denies,  and  now  her  hand  withdraws, 
Rejecting  his  addresses. 

Fair  is  she  as  the  dreams  young  poets  weave, 
Bright  eyes  and  dainty  lips  and  tresses  curly, 
In  outward  loveliness  a  child  of  Eve, 
But  cold  as  nymph  of  Lurley. 

The  more  Love  tries  her  pity  to  engross. 
The  more  she  chills  him  with  a  strange  behavior  ; 
Now  tells  her  beads,  now  gazes  on  the  Cross 
And  image  of  the  Saviour. 

Forth  goes  the  lover  with  a  farewell  moan, 
As  from  the  presence  of  a  thing  unhuman ;  — 
0,  what  unholy  spell  hath  turned  to  stone 
The  young  warm  heart  of  woman  ! 

***** 
'T  is  midnight —  and  the  moonbeam,  cold  and  wan. 
On  bower  and  river  quietly  is  sleeping, 
And  o'er  the  corse  of  a  self-murdered  man 
The  maiden  fair  is  weeping. 

In  vain  she  looks  into  his  glassy  eyes, 
No  pressure  answers  to  her  hands  so  pressing ; 
In  her  fond  arms  impassively  he  lies, 
Clay-cokl  to  her  caressing. 

Despairing,  stunned,  by  her  eternal  loss. 
She  flies  to  succor  that  may  best  beseem  her ; 
But,  lo  !  a  frowning  figure  veils  the  Cross, 
And  hides  the  blest  Redeemer  ! 

With  stern  right  hand  it  stretches  forth  a  scroll, 
Wherein  she  reads,  in  melancholy  letters. 


THE   KEY.  219 

The  cruel,  fatal  pact  that  placed  her  soul 
And  her  young  heart  in  fetters. 

"  Wretch  !  sinner  !  renegade  to  truth  and  God ! 
Thy  holy  faith  for  human  love  to  barter  !  " 
No  more  she  hears,  but  on  the  bloody  sod 
Sinks,  Bigotry's  last  martyr  ! 

And  side  by  side  the  hapless  lovers  lie ; 
Tell  me,  harsh  priest !  by  yonder  tragic  token, 
What  part  hath  God  in  such  a  bond,  whereby 
Or  hearts  or  vows  are  broken  1 


THE    KEY. 

A   MOORISH   ROMANCE. 


"  On  the  east  coast,  towards  Tunis,  the  Moors  still  preserve  the  keys 
of  their  ancestors'  houses  in  Spain  ;  to  which  country  they  still  express 
the  hopes  of  one  day  returning,  and  again  planting  the  Crescent  on  the 
ancient  walls  of  the  Alhambra."  —  Scott's  Travels  in  Morocco  and 
Algiers. 

"  Is  Spain  cloven  in  such  a  manner  as  to  want  closing  ?  "  — Sancho 
Panza. 

The  Moor  leans  on  his  cushion. 

With  the  pipe  between  his  lips  ; 

And  still  at  frequent  intervals 

The  sweet  sherbet  he  sips  ; 

But,  spite  of  lulling  vapor 

And  the  sober  cooling  cup, 

The  spirit  of  the  swarthy  Moor 

Is  fiercely  kindling  up  ! 

One  hand  is  on  his  pistol. 
On  its  ornamented  stock, 
While  his  finger  feels  the  trigger 
And  is  busy  with  the  lock  — 


220  THE   KEY. 

The  other  seeks  his  ataghan, 
And  clasps  its  jewelled  hilt  — 
0  !  much  of  gore  in  days  of  yore 
That  crooked  blade  has  split ! 

His  brows  are  knit,  his  eyes  of  jet 

In  vivid  blackness  roll, 

And  gleam  with  fatal  flashes 

Like  the  fire-damp  of  the  coal ; 

His  jaws  are  set,  and  through  his  teeth 

He  draws  a  savage  breath, 

As  if  about  to  raise  the  shout 

Of  Victory  or  Death  ! 

For  why  1    the  last  Zebeck  that  came 

And  moored  within  the  mole 

Such  tidings  unto  Tunis  brought 

As  stir  his  very  soul  — 

The  cruel  jar  of  civil  war. 

The  sad  and  stormy  reign, 

That  blackens  like  a  thunder-cloud 

The  sunny  land  of  Spain  ! 

No  strife  of  glorious  Chivalry, 

For  honor's  gain  or  loss. 

Nor  yet  that  ancient  rivalry, 

The  Crescent  with  the  Cross. 

No  charge  of  gallant  Paladins 

On  Moslems  stern  and  stanch  ; 

But  Christians  shedding  Christian  blood 

Beneath  the  olive's  branch  ! 

A  war  of  horrid  parricide. 

And  brother  killing  brother ; 

Yea,  like  to  "dogs  and  sons  of  dogs," 

That  worry  one  another. 


THE   KEY. 

But  let  them  bite  and  tear  and  fight ; 
The  more  the  Kaffers  slaj, 
The  sooner  Hagar's  swarming  sons 
Shall  make  the  land  a  prey  ! 

The  sooner  shall  the  Moor  behold 
The  Alhambra's  pile  again, 
And  those  who  pined  in  Barbary 
Shall  shout  for  joy  in  Spain ; 
The  sooner  shall  the  Crescent  wave 
On  dear  Granada's  walls, 
And  proud  Mohammed  Ali  sit 
Within  his  flither's  halls  ! 

"  Alla-il-alla  !  "  tiger-like 
Up  springs  the  swarthy  Moor, 
And,  with  a  wide  and  hasty  stride, 
Steps  o'er  the  marble  floor ; 
Across  the  hall,  till  from  the  wall. 
Where  such  quaint  patterns  be. 
With  eager  hand  he  snatches  down 
An  old  and  massive  key  ! 

A  massive  key  of  curious  shape, 
And  dark  with  dirt  and  rust. 
And  well  three  weary  centuries 
The  metal  might  incrust ! 
For  since  the  king  Boabdil  fell 
Before  the  native  stock. 
That  ancient  key,  so  quaint  to  see, 
Hath  never  been  in  lock. 

Brought  over  by  the  Saracens 
Who  fled  across  the  main, 
A  token  of  the  secret  hope 
Of  going  back  again ; 
19* 


221 


222  THE    KEY. 


From  race  to  race,  from  hand  to  hand, 
From  house  to  house,  it  passed ; 
0,  -will  it  ever,  ever  ope 
The  palace  gate,  at  last? 

Three  hundred  years  and  fifty-two 
On  post  and  wall  it  hung  — 
Three  hundred  years  and  fifty-two 
A  dream  to  old  and  young ; 
But  now  a  brighter  destiny 
The  Prophet's  will  accords  : 
The  time  is  come  to  scour  the  rust, 
And  lubricate  the  wards. 

For  should  the  Moor  with  sword  and  lance 

At  Algesiras  land, 

Where  is  the  bold  Bernardo  now 

Their  progress  to  withstand  1 

To  Burgos  should  the  Moslem  come, 

Where  is  the  noble  Cid 

Five  royal  crowns  to  topple  down, 

As  gallant  Diaz  did  1 

Hath  Xeres  any  Pounder  now,     • 

When  other  weapons  fail, 

With  club  to  thrash  invaders  rash, 

Like  barley  with  a  flail  ] 

Hath  Seville  any  Perez  still, 

To  lay  his  clusters  low, 

And  ride  with  seven  turbans  green 

Around  his  saddle-bow  ? 

No  !  never  more  shall  Europe  see 
Such  heroes  brave  and  Ixild, 
Such  valor,  faith,  and  loyalty. 
As  used  to  shine  of  old ! 


THE    KEY.  223 

No  longer  to  one  battle-cry 

United  Spaniards  run, 

And  with  their  thronging  spears  uphold 

The  Vii'gin  and  her  Son  ! 

From  Cadiz  Bay  to  rough  Biscay 

Internal  discord  dwells. 

And  Barcelona  bears  the  scars 

Of  Spanish  shot  and  shells. 

The  fleets  decline,  the  merchants  pine 

For  want  of  foreign  trade  ; 

And  gold  is  scant :  and  Alicante 

Is  sealed  by  strict  blockade  ! 

The  loyal  fly,  and  valor  falls, 

Opposed  by  court  intrigue ; 

But  treachery  and  traitors  thrive, 

Upheld  by  foreign  league ; 

While  factions  seeking  private  ends 

By  turns  usurping  reign  — 

Well  may  the  dreaming,  scheming  Moor 

Exulting  point  to  Spain  ! 

Well  may  he  cleanse  the  rusty  key 
With  Afric  sand  and  oil, 
And  hope  an  Andalusian  home 
Shall  recompense  the  toil ! 
Well  may  he  swear  the  Moorish  speai" 
Through  wild  Castile  shall  sweep, 
And  where  the  Catalonian  sowed 
The  Saracen  shall  reap  ! 

Well  may  he  vow  to  spurn  the  Cross 
Beneath  the  Arab  hoof, 
And  plant  the  Crescent  yet  again 
Above  the  Alhambra's  roof, 


224  SONNETS. 


When  those  from  whom  St.  Jago's  name 
In  chorus  once  arose 
Are  shouting  faction's  battle-cries, 
And  Spain  forgets  to  '•  Close  !  " 

Well  may  he  swear  his  ataghan 

Shall  rout  the  traitor  swarm, 

And  carve  them  into  arabesques 

That  show  no  human  form  — 

The  blame  be  theirs  whose  bloody  feuds 

Invite  the  savage  Moor, 

And  tempt  him  with  the  ancient  key 

To  seek  the  ancient  door  ' 


SONNETS. 

TO    THE    OCEAN. 


Shall  I  rebuke  thee,  Ocean,  my  old  love. 
That  once,  in  rage,  with  the  wild  winds  at  strife, 
Thou  darest  menace  my  unit  of  a  life, 
Sending  my  clay  below,  my  soul  above, 
Whilst  roared  thy  waves,  like  lions  when  they  rove 
By  night,  and  bound  upon  their  prey  by  stealth  ? 
Yet  didst  thou  ne'er  restore  my  fainting  health  ?  — 
Didst  thou  ne"er  murmur  gently  like  the  dove? 
Nay,  didst  thou  not  against  my  own  dear  shore 
Full  break,  last  link  between  my  land  and  me  7  — 
My  absent  friends  talk  in  thy  very  roar, 
In  thy  waves'  beat  their  kindly  pulse  I  see. 
And,  if  I  must  not  see  my  England  more. 
Next  to  her  soil,  my  grave  be  found  in  thee ! 

Coblentz,  May,  1835. 


SONNETS. 


LEAR. 


22; 


A  POOR  old  king,  with  sorrow  for  my  crown, 
Throned  upon  straw,  and  mantled  with  the  wind  — 
For  pity,  my  own  tears  have  made  me  blind, 
That  I  might  never  see  my  children's  frown ; 
And  may  be  madness,  like  a  friend,  has  thrown 
A  folded  fillet  over  my  dark  mind, 
So  that  unkindly  speech  may  sound  for  kind, — 
Albeit  I  know  not. —  I  am  childish  grown  — 
And  have  not  gold  to  purchase  wit  withal  — 
I  that  have  once  maintained  most  royal  state  — 
A  very  bankrupt  now,  that  may  not  call 
My  child,  my  child  —  all-beggared  save  in  tears, 
Wherewith  I  daily  weep  an  old  man's  fate, 
Foolish  —  and  blind  —  and  overcome  with  years  ! 


SONNET    TO   A    SONNET. 

Rare  composition  of  a  poet-knight. 
Most  chivalrous  amongst  chivalric  men, 
Distinguished  for  a  polished  lance  and  pen 
In  tuneful  contest  and  in  tourney-fight ; 
Lustrous  in  scholarship,  in  honor  bright, 
Accomplished  in  all  graces  current  then, 
Humane  as  any  in  historic  ken, 
Brave,  handsome,  noble,  aflable,  polite ; 
Most  courteous  to  that  race  become  of  late 
So  fiercely  scornful  of  all  kind  advance. 
Rude,  bitter,  coarse,  implacable  in  hate 
To  Albion,  plotting  ever  her  mischance, — 
Alas,  fiiir  verse  !  how  false  and  out  of  date 
Thy  phrase  '-sweet  enemy"'  applied  to  France  ! 


226  SONNETS. 


FALSE   POETS   AND   TRUE. 


Look  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone, 

Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky  ! 

His  voice  is  heard,  hut  body  there  is  none 

To  fix  the  vague  excursions  of  the  eye. 

So,  poets'  songs  are  with  us,  though  they  die 

Obscured  and  hid  by  Death's  oblivious  shroud, 

And  earth  inherits  the  rich  melody, 

Like  raining  music  from  the  morning  cloud. 

Yet,  few  there  be  who  pipe  so  sweet  and  loud. 

Their  voices  reach  us  through  the  lapse  of  space  : 

The  noisy  day  is  deafened  by  a  crowd 

Of  undistinguished  birds,  a  twittering  race ; 

But  only  lark  and  nightingale  forlorn 

Fill  up  the  silences  of  night  and  morn. 


TO 


My  heart  is  sick  with  longing,  though  I  feed 
On  hope ;  Time  goes  with  such  a  heavy  pace 
That  neither  brings  nor  takes  from  thy  embrace, 
As  if  he  slept  —  forgetting  his  old  speed  : 
For,  as  in  sunshine  only  we  can  read 
The  march  of  minutes  on  the  dial's  face. 
So  in  the  shadows  of  this  lonely  place 
There  is  no  love,  and  time  is  dead  indeed. 
But  when,  dear  lady,  I  am  near  thy  heart, 
Thy  smile  is  time,  and  then  so  swift  it  flies, 
It  seems  we  only  meet  to  tear  apart 
With  aching  hands  and  lingering  of  eyes. 
Alas,  alas  !  that  we  must  learn  hours'  flight 
By  the  same  light  of  love  that  makes  them  bright ' 


SONNETS. 


227 


FOR  THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  FEBRUARY. 

No  popular  respect  will  I  omit 
To  do  thee  honor  on  this  happy  day, 
When  every  loyal  lover  tasks  his  wit 
His  simple  truth  in  studious  rhymes  to  pay, 
And  to  his  mistress  dear  his  hopes  convey. 
Rather  thou  knowest  I  would  still  outrun 
All  calendars  with  Love's,— whose  date  alway 
Thy  bright  eyes  govern  better  than  the  sun, — 
For  with  thy  favor  was  my  life  begun ; 
And  still  I  reckon  on  from  smiles  to  smiles, 
And  not  by  summers,  for  I  thrive  on  none 
But  those  thy  cheerful  countenance  compiles : 
0  !  if  it  be  to  choose  and  call  thee  mine, 
Love,  thou  art  every  day  my  Valentine. 


TO    A   SLEEPING   CHILD. 

0,  't  is  a  touching  thing,  to  make  one  weep, — 
A  tender  infant  with  its  curtained  eye. 
Breathing  as  it  would  neither  live  nor  die 
With  that  unchanging  countenance  of  sleep  ! 
As  if  its  silent  dream,  serene  and  deep, 
Had  lined  its  slumber  with  a  still  blue  sky, 
So  that  the  passive  cheeks  unconscious  lie. 
With  no  more  life  than  roses  —  just  to  keep 
The  blushes  warm,  and  the  mild,  odorous  breath. 
0  blossom  boy  !  so  calm  is  thy  repose, 
So  sweet  a  compromise  of  life  and  death, 
'T  is  pity  those  fair  buds  should  e'er  unclose 
For  memory  to  stain  their  inward  leaf, 
Tino-ing  thy  dreams  with  unacquainted  grief. 


^ 


228  SONNETS. 


TO   A   SLEEPING   CHILD. 


Thine  eyelids  slept  so  beauteouslj,  I  deemed 

No  eyes  could  wake  so  beautiful  as  they  : 

Thy  rosy  cheeks  in  such  still  slumbers  lay, 

I  loved  their  peacefulness,  nor  ever  dreamed 

Of  dimples ;  —  for  those  parted  lips  so  seemed, 

I  never  thought  a  smile  could  sweetlier  play. 

Nor  that  so  graceful  life  could  chase  away 

Thy  graceful  death, —  till  those  blue  eyes  upbeamed. 

Now  slumber  lies  in  dimpled  eddies  drowned, 

And  roses  bloom  more  rosily  for  joy, 

And  odorous  silence  ripens  into  sound. 

And  fingers  move  to  sound. —  All-beauteous  boy  ! 

How  thou  dost  waken  into  smiles,  and  prove. 

If  not  more  lovely,  thou  art  more  like  Love  ! 


The  world  is  with  me,  and  its  many  cares. 

Its  woes  —  its  wants  —  the  anxious  hopes  and  fears 

That  wait  on  all  terrestrial  affairs  — 

The  shades  of  former  and  of  future  years  — 

Foreboding  fancies  and  prophetic  tears. 

Quelling  a  spii'it  that  was  once  elate. 

Heavens  !  what  a  wilderness  the  world  appears, 

Where  youth,  and  mirth,  and  health  are  out  of  date 

But  no  —  a  laugh  of  innocence  and  joy 

Resounds,  like  music  of  the  fairy  race. 

And,  gladly  turning  from  the  world's  annoy, 

I  gaze  upon  a  little  radiant  face. 

And  bless,  internally,  the  merry  boy 

Who  "makes  a  son-shine  in  a  shady  place." 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND  HER  PRECIOUS  LEG. 

A    GOLDEN    LEGEND. 


"  What  is  here  ^ 
Gold  1  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold  1 " 


TiMON  OF  Athens. 


J^ev  39ctiiflree. 

To  trace  the  Ivilmansegg  pedigree, 
'Co  the  very  roots  of  the  family  tree, 

Were  a  task  as  rash  as  ridiculous : 
Through  antediluvian  mists  as  thick 
As  London  fog  such  a  line  to  pick 
Were  enough,  in  truth,  to  puzzle  Old  Nick, 

Not  to  name  Sir  Harris  Nicholas. 

It  would  n't  require  much  verbal  strain 
To  trace  the  Kill-man,  perchance,  to  Cain ; 

But,  waving  all  such  digressions. 
Suffice  it,  according  to  family  lore, 
A  Patriarch  Kilmansegg  lived  of  yore, 

Who  was  famed  for  his  great  possessions. 

Tradition  said  he  feathered  his  nest 
Through  an  agricultural  interest 
In  the  golden  age  of  farming ; 
When  golden  eggs  were  laid  by  the  geese, 
And  Colchian  sheep  wore  a  golden  fleece, 


232        MISS   KILMANSEGG  AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

And  golden  pippins  —  the  sterling  kind 

Of  Hesperus  —  now  so  hard  to  find  — 

Made  horticulture  quite  charming  ! 

A  lord  of  land,  on  his  own  estate 
He  lived  at  a  very  lively  rate, 

But  his  income  would  bear  carousing ; 
Such  acres  he  had  of  pasture  and  heath, 
With  herbage  so  rich  from  the  ore  beneath, 
The  very  ewe's  and  lambkin's  teeth 

Were  turned  into  gold  by  browsing. 

He  gave,  without  any  extra  thrift, 
A  flock  of  sheep  for  a  birthday  gift 

To  each  son  of  his  loins,  or  daughter : 
And  his  debts  —  if  debts  he  had  —  at  will 
He  liquidated  by  giving  each  bill 

A  dip  in  Pactolian  water. 

'T  was  said  that  even  his  pigs  of  lead, 
By  crossing  with  some  by  Midas  bred, 

Made  a  perfect  mine  of  his  piggery. 
And  as  for  cattle,  one  yearling  bull 
Was  worth  all  Smithfield-market  full 

Of  the  golden  bulls  of  Pope  Gregory. 

The  high-bred  horses  within  his  stud. 
Like  human  creatures  of  birth  and  blood, 

Had  their  golden  cups  and  flagons  : 
And  as  for  the  common  husbandry  nags, 
Their  noses  were  tied  in  money-bags, 

Wlien  they  stopped  with  the  carts  and  wagons. 

Moreover,  he  had  a  golden  ass. 
Sometimes  at  stall,  and  sometimes  at  grass. 
That  was  worth  his  own  weight  in  money  — 


MISS   KILMANSEOa   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        238 

And  a  golden  hive,  on  a  golden  bank, 
Where  golden  bees,  bj  alchemical  prank, 
Grathered  gold  instead  of  honey. 

Gold !  and  gold  !  and  gold  without  end  ! 
He  had  gold  to  lay  by,  and  gold  to  spend, 
Gold  to  give,  and  gold  to  lend, 

And  reversions  of  gold  in  futuro. 
In  -wealth  the  family  revelled  and  rolled. 
Himself  and  vrife  and  sons  so  bold  :  — 
And  his  daughters  sang  to  their  harps  of  gold 
"  0  bella  eta  del"  oro  ! '"' 

Such  was  the  tale  of  the  Kilmansegg  kin 

In  golden  text  on  a  vellum  skin. 

Though  certain  people  would  wink  and  grin. 

And  declare  the  whole  story  a  parable  — 
That  the  ancestor  rich  was  one  Jacob  Ghrimes, 
Who  held  a  long  lease,  in  prosperous  times. 

Of  acreS;  pasture  and  arable. 

That  as  money  makes  money,  his  golden  bees 
Were  the  Five  per  Cents,  or  which  you  please, 

When  his  cash  was  more  than  plenty  — 
That  the  golden  cups  were  racing  affairs ; 
And  his  daughtei-s,  who  sang  Itahan  airs, 

Had  their  golden  harps  of  Clementi. 

That  the  golden  ass.  or  golden  bull, 
Was  Enghsh  John,  with  his  pockets  full, 

Then  at  war  by  land  and  water  : 
While  beef,  and  mutton,  and  other  meat. 
Were  almost  as  dear  as  money  to  eat, 
And  farmers  reaped  golden  harvests  of  wheat 

At  the  Lord  knows  what  per  quarter  ! 
20* 


23'4        MISS    KILMAXSEGG    AND    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG. 

What  diflFerent  dooms  our  birthdays  bring  ! 
For  instance,  one  little  manikin  thing 

Survives  to  wear  manj  a  wrinkle  ; 
While  death  forbids  another  to  wake, 
And  a  son  that  it  took  nine  moons  to  make 

Expires  without  even  a  twinkle  : 

Into  this  world  we  come  like  ships. 

Launched  from  the  docks,  and  stocks,  and  slips, 

For  fortune  fair  or  fatal ; 
And  one  little  craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  first  trip  in  Babbicome  Bay, 

While  another  rides  safe  at  Port  Xatal. 

What  different  lots  our  stars  accord  ! 

This  babe  to  be  hailed  and  wooed  as  a  lord ! 

And  that  to  be  shuimed  like  a  leper  ! 
One.  to  the  world's  wine,  honey,  and  corn. 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 

To  its  vinegar,  only,  and  pepper. 

One  is  littered  under  a  roof 
Neither  wind  nor  water  proof, — 

That  "s  the  prose  of  Love  in  a  cottage, — 
A  puny,  naked,  shivering  wretch, 
The  wbole  of  whose  biithright  would  not  fetch, 
Though  Robins  himself  drew  up  the  sketch, 

The  bid  of  -  a  mess  of  pottage." 

Born  of  Fortunatus's  kdn. 
Another  comes  tenderly  ushered  in 

To  a  prospect  all  bright  and  burnished  : 
No  tenant  he  for  life's  back  slums  — 
He  comes  to  the  world  as  a  gentleman  comes 

To  a  lodging  ready  famished. 


MISS  KILMANSEGQ   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        235 

And  the  other  sex  —  the  tender  —  the  fair  — 

What  wide  reverses  of  fate  are  there  ! 

Whilst  Margaret,  charmed  bj  the  Bulbul  rare, 

In  a  garden  of  Gul  reposes, 
Poor  'Pe<^<yj  hawks  nosegays  from  street  to  street 
Till  —  think  of  that,  who  find  life  so  sweet !  — 

She  hates  the  smell  of  roses  ! 

Not  so  with  the  infmt  Kilmansegg  ! 
She  was  not  born  to  steal  or  beg, 

Or  gather  cresses  in  ditches  ; 
To  plait  the  straw,  or  bind  the  shoe, 
Or  sit  all  day  to  hem  and  sew, 
As  females  must,  and  not  a  few  — 

To  fill  their  insides  with  stitches  ! 

She  was  not  doomed,  for  bread  to  eat. 

To  be  put  to  her  hands  as  well  as  her  feet  — 

To  carry  home  linen  from  mangles  — 
Or  heavy-hearted,  and  weary-limbed, 
To  dance  on  a  rope  in  a  jacket  trimmed 

With  as  many  blows  as  spangles. 

She  was  one  of  those  who  by  Fortune's  boon 
Are  born,  as  they  say,  with  a  silver  spoon 

In  her  mouth,  not  a  wooden  ladle  : 
To  speak  according  to  poet's  wont, 
Plutus  as  sponsor  stood  at  her  font, 

And  Midas  rocked  the  cradle. 

At  her  first  debut  she  found  her  head 
On  a  pillow  of  down,  in  a  downy  bed, 

With  a  damask  canopy  over. 
For  although  by  the  vulgar  popular  saw 
All  mothers  are  said  to  be  "'in  the  straw," 

Some  children  are  born  in  clover. 


236       MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

Her  very  first  draught  of  vital  air 
It  was  not  the  common  chameleon  fare 
Of  plebeian  lungs  and  noses, — 
No  —  her  earliest  snifi" 
Of  this  world  was  a  whiff 
Of  the  genuine  Otto  of  Roses  ! 

When  she  saw  the  light,  it  was  no  mere  ray 
Of  that  light  so  common,  so  every-day, 

That  the  sun  each  morning  launches  ; 
But  six  wax  tapers  dazzled  her  eyes. 
From  a  thing  —  a  gooseberry-bush  for  size  — 

With  a  golden  stem  and  branches. 

She  was  born  exactly  at  half-past  two, 
As  witnessed  a  time-piece  in  or-molu 

That  stood  on  a  marble  table  — 
Showing  at  once  the  time  of  day. 
And  a  team  of  Gildings  running  away 

As  fast  as  they  were  able, 
With  a  golden  god,  with  a  golden  star. 
And  a  golden  spear,  in  a  golden  car, 

According  to  Grecian  fable. 

Like  other  babes,  at  her  birth  she  cried ; 
Which  made  a  sensation  far  and  wide. 

Ay,  for  twenty  miles  around  her  ; 
For  though  to  the  ear  ■  t  was  nothing  more 
Than  an  infant's  squall,  it  was  really  the  roar 
Of  a  fifty-thousand  pounder  ! 
It  shook  the  next  heir 
In  his  library  chair, 
And  made  him  cry  "  Confound  her  !  " 

Of  signs  and  omens  there  was  no  dearth. 
Any  more  than  at  Owen  Glendower's  birth. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND   HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.       237 


Or  the  advent  of  other  great  people : 

Two  bullocks  dropped  dead, 

As  if  knocked  on  the  head, 

And  barrels  of  stout 

And  ale  ran  about, 
And  the  village-bells  such  a  peal  rang  out, 
That  they  cracked  the  village  steeple. 

In  no  time  at  all,  like  mushroom  spawn, 
Tables  sprang  up  all  over  the  lawn ; 
Not  furnished  scantily  or  shabbily, 
But  on  scale  as  vast 
As  that  huge  repast, 
With  its  loads  and  cargoes 
Of  drink  and  botargoes, 
At  the  birth  of  the  babe  in  Rabelais. 

Hundi-eds  of  men  were  turned  into  beasts, 
Like  the  guests  at  Circe's  horrible  feasts, 
"  By  the  magic  of  ale  and  cider  : 
And  each  country  lass,  and  each  country  lad, 
Began  to  caper  and  dance  like  mad, 
And  even  some  old  ones  appeared  to  have  had 
A  bite  from  the  Naples  spider. 

Then  as  night  came  on, 

It  had  scared  King  John, 
Who  considered  such  signs  not  risible, 

To  have  seen  the  maroons. 

And  the  whirhng  moons. 

And  the  serpents  of  flame, 

And  wheels  of  the  same, 
That  according  to  some  were  "  whizzable." 

0,  happy  Hope  of  the  Kilmanseggs  ! 
Thrice  happy  in  head,  and  body,  and  legs. 
That  her  parents  had  such  full  pockets  ! 


238        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

For  had  she  been  born  of  want  and  thrift, 
For  care  and  nursing  all  adrift, 
It 's  ten  to  one  she  had  had  to  make  shift 
With  rickets  instead  of  rockets  ! 

And  how  was  the  precious  baby  drest  7 
In  a  robe  of  the  East,  with  lace  of  the  West, 
Like  one  of  Croesus's  issue  — 
Her  best  bibs  were  made 
Of  rich  gold  brocade. 
And  the  others  of  silver  tissue. 

And  when  the  baby  inclined  to  nap 
She  was  lulled  on  a  Gros  de  Naples  lap, 
By  a  nurse  in  a  modish  Paris  cap, 

Of  notions  so  exalted, 
She  drank  nothing  loAver  than  Cura^oa, 
Maraschino,  or  pink  Noyau, 

And  on  principle  never  malted.  ^ 

From  a  golden  boat,  with  a  golden  spoon, 
The  babe  was  fed  night,  morning,  and  noon ; 

And,  although  the  tale  seems  fabulous, 
'T  is  said  her  tops  and  bottoms  were  gilt. 
Like  the  oats  in  that  stable-yard  palace  built 

For  the  horse  of  Heliogabalus. 

And  when  she  took  to  squall  and  kick  — 
For  pain  will  wring  and  pins  will  prick 
E'en  the  wealthiest  nabob's  daughter  —    . 
They  gave  her  no  vulgar  Dalby  or  gin, 
But  a  liquor  with  leaf  of  gold  therein. 
Videlicet, —  Dantzic  Water. 

In  short,  she  was  born,  and  bred,  and  nurst, 
And  drest  in  the  best  from  the  very  first, 
To  please  the  genteelest  censor  — 


MISS    KILMANSEQG    AND    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG.        239 

And  then,  as  soon  as  strength  -svoulJ  allow. 
Was  vaccinated,  as  babes  are  now, 
With  virus  ta'en  from  the  best-bred  cow 
Of  Lord  Althorpe's  —  now  Earl  Spencer. 

^et  C!tl)r{steuina. 

Though  Shakspeare  asks  us  "  What 's  in  a  name  V 
(As  if  cognomens  were  much  the  same,) 

There  's  reallj  a  very  great  scope  in  it. 
A  name  7  —  why,  was  n't  there  Doctor  Dodd, 
That  servant  at  once  of  Mammon  and  God, 
Who  found  four  thousand  pounds  and  odd, 

A  prison  —  a  cart  —  and  a  rope  in  it  7 

A  name  1  —  if  the  party  had  a  voice. 
What  mortal  would  be  a  Bugg  by  choice  ? 
As  a  Hogg,  a  Grubb,  or  a  Chubb  rejoice  ? 

Or  any  such  nauseous  blazon  ? 
Not  to  mention  many  a  vulgar  name. 
That  would  make  a  door-plate  blush  for  shame, 

If  door-plates  were  not  so  brazen  ! 

A  name  7  —  it  has  more  than  nominal  worth, 
And  belongs  to  good  or  bad  luck  at  birth  — 

As  dames  of  a  certain  degree  know. 
In  spite  of  his  page's  hat  and  hose. 
His  page's  jacket,  and  buttons  in  rows. 
Bob  only  sounds  like  a  page  of  prose 

Till  turned  into  Kupertino. 

Now,  to  christen  the  infant  Kilmansegg, 
For  days  and  days  it  was  quite  a  plague, 

To  hunt  the  list  in  the  lexicon  : 
And  scores  were  tried,  like  coin,  by  the  ring, 
Ere  names  were  found  just  the  proper  thing, 

For  a  minor  rich  as  a  Mexican. 


210       MISS   KILMAXSEGG    AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 

Then  cards  were  sent,  the  presence  to  beg 
Of  all  the  kin  of  Kilmansegg, 

White,  yellow,  and  brown  relations  : 
Brothers,  wardens  of  city  halls, 
And  uncles  —  rich  as  three  golden  balls 

From  taking  pledges  of  nations. 

Nephews,  whom  Fortune  seemed  to  bewitch, 

Risino;  m  life  like  rockets  — 
Nieces  whose  doweries  knew  no  hitch  — 
Aunts  as  certain  of  dying  rich 
As  candles  in  golden  sockets  — 
Cousins  German,  and  cousins'  sons, 
All  thriving  and  opulent  —  some  had  tons 

Of  Kentish  hops  in  their  pockets  ! 

For  money  had  stuck  to  the  race  through  life 
(As  it  did  to  the  bushel  when  cash  so  rife 
Posed  Ali  Baba's  brother's  wife)  — 

And,  down  to  the  cousins  and  coz-lings 
The  fortunate  brood  of  the  Kilmanseggs, 
As  if  they  had  come  out  of  golden  eggs, 

"Were  all  as  wealthy  as  "  goslings." 

It  would  fill  a  Court  Grazette  to  name 
What  east  and  west  end  people  came 

To  the  rite  of  Christianity  ; 
The  lofty  lord  and  the  titled  dame. 

All  diamonds,  plumes,  and  urbanity ; 
The  Lordship  the  Mayor  with  his  golden  chain, 
And  two  Gold  Sticks,  and  the  sheriffs  twain, 
Nine  foreign  counts,  and  other  great  men 
With  their  orders  or  stars,  to  help  M  or  N 

To  renounce  all  pomp  and  vanity. 

To  paint  the  maternal  Kilmansegg 
The  pen  of  an  Eastern  poet  would  beg, 


mSS   KILMANSEGG   AXD   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        241 

And  need  an  elaborate  sonnet ; 
Hovr  she  sparkled  Tvith  gems  whenever  she  stirred, 
And  her  head  niddle-noddled  at  every  word, 
And  seemed  so  happy,  a  paradise  bird 

Had  nidificated  upon  it. 

And  Sir  Jacob  the  father  strutted  and  bowed, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  laughed  aloud. 

To  think  of  his  heiress  and  daughter  — 
And  then  in  his  pockets  he  made  a  grope, 
And  then,  in  the  fulness  of  joy  and  hope,    . 
Seemed  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap 

In  imperceptible  water. 

He  had  rolled  in  money  like  pigs  in  mud, 
Till  it  seemed  to  have  entered  into  his  blood 

By  some  occult  projection : 
And  his  cheeks,  instead  of  a  healthy  hue, 
As  yellow  as  any  guinea  grew, 
Making  the  common  phrase  seem  true 

About  a  rich  complexion. 

And  now  came  the  nurse,  and  during  a  pause, 
Her  dead-leaf  satin  would  fitly  cause 

A  very  autumnal  rustle  — 
So  full  of  figure,  so  full  of  fuss, 
As  she  carried  about  the  babe  to  buss, 

She  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  bustle. 

A  wealthy  Nabob  was  godpapa. 

And  an  Indian  Bejiium  was  godmamma. 

Whose  jewels  a  queen  might  covet ; 
And  the  priest  was  a  vicar,  and  dean  withal 
Of  that  temple  we  see  with  a  golden  ball, 

And  a  golden  cross  above  it. 
21 


ZZZ.i 


242        MISS   KILMANSEGG  AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

The  font  was  a  bowl  of  American  gold, 
Won  by  Raleigh  in  clays  of  old, 

In  spite  of  Spanish  bravado  ; 
And  the  book  of  prayer  was  so  overrun 
With  gilt  devices,  it  shone  in  the  sun 
Like  a  copy  —  a  presentation  one  — 

Of  Humboldt's  "El  Dorado." 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  and  nothing  but  gold  ! 
The  same  auriferous  shine  behold 

Wherever  the  eye  could  settle  ! 
On  the  walls  —  the  sideboard  —  the  ceiling-sky  — 
On  the  gorgeous  footmen  standing  by, 
In  coats  to  delight  a  miner's  eye 

With  seams  of  the  precious  metal. 

Gold !  and  gold  !  and  besides  the  gold. 
The  very  robe  of  the  infant  told 
A  tale  of  wealth  in  every  fold, 

It  lapped  her  like  a  vapor  ! 
So  fine  !  so  thin  !  the  mind  at  a  loss 
Could  compare  it  to  nothing  except  a  cross 

Of  cobweb  with  bank-note  paper. 

Then  her  pearls — 'twas  a  perfect  sight,  forsooth, 
To  see  them,  like  "the  dew  of  her  youth," 

In  such  a  plentiful  sprinkle. 
Meanwhile,  the  vicar  read  through  the  form. 
And  gave  her  another,  not  overwarm. 

That  made  her  little  eyes  twinkle. 

Then  the  babe  was  crossed  and  blessed  amain  ; 
But  instead  of  the  Kate,  or  Ann,  or  Jane, 

Which  the  humbler  female  endorses  — 
Instead  of  one  name,  as  some  people  prefiXj 
Kilmansegg  went  at  the  tails  of  six, 

Like  a  carriage  of  state  with  its  horses. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND    UER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        246 

0  !  then  the  kisses  she  got  and  hugs  ! 
The  golden  mugs  and  the  golden  jugs, 

That  lent  fresh  rays  to  the  midges  ! 
The  golden  knives,  and  the  golden  spoons, 
The  gems  that  sparkled  like  fairy  boons, 
It  was  one  of  the  Kilmansegg's  own  saloons, 

But  looked  like  Rundell  and  Bridge's  ! 

Gold !  and  gold  !  the  ne^Y  and  the  old  ! 
The  company  ate  and  drank  from  gold, 

They  revelled,  they  sang,  and  were  merry ; 
And  one  of  the  Gold  Sticks  rose  from  his  chair 
And  toasted  "  the  lass  with  the  golden  hair  " 

In  a  bumper  of  golden  sherry. 

Gold  !  still  gold  !  it  rained  on  the  nurse. 
Who,  unlike  Daniie,  was  none  the  worse ; 
There  was  nothing  but  guineas  glistening  ! 
Fifty  were  given  to  Doctor  James, 
For  calling  the  little  baby  names ; 
And  for  saying  Amen  ! 
The  clerk  had  ten. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Christening. 

Our  youth  !  our  childhood  !  that  spring  of  springs 
'Tis  surely  one  of  the  blessedest  things 

That  nature  ever  invented  ! 
When  the  rich  are  wealthy  beyond  their  ^vealth, 
And  the  poor  are  rich  in  spirits  and  health, 

And  all  with  their  lots  contmted  ! 

There  "s  little  Phelim,  he  sings  like  a  thrush, 
In  the  self-same  pair  of  patchwork  plush, 
With  the  self-same  empty  pockets, 


24-i        MISS   KILilAXSEGG   AXD   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

That  tempted  his  daddy  so  often  to  cut 
His  throat,  or  jump  in  the  water-butt  — 
But  what  cares  Phelim?  an  empty  nut 
"Would  sooner  bring  tears  to  their  sockets. 

Give  him  a  collar  without  a  skirt, — 

That 's  the  Irish  linen  for  shirt ; 

And  a  slice  of  bread,  with  a  taste  of  dirt, — 

That 's  poverty's  Irish  butter  : 
And  what  does  he  lack  to  make  him  blest  ? 
Some  oyster-shells,  or  a  sparrow's  nest, 

A  candle-end  and  a  gutter. 

But,  to  leave  the  happy  Phelim  alone, 
Gnawing,  perchance,  a  man'owless  bone, 

For  which  no  dog  would  quarrel  — 
Turn  we  to  little  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Cutting  her  fii'st  little  toothy-peg 
With  a  fifty-guinea  coral  — 
A  peg  upon  which 
About  poor  and  rich 
Reflection  mio;ht  hancr  a  moral. 

Born  in  wealth,  and  wealthily  nursed, 

Capped,  papped,  napped,  and  lapped  from  the  first 

On  the  knees  of  Prodigality. 
Her  childhood  was  one  eternal  round 
Of  the  game  of  going  on  Tickler's  ground 

Coo  o 

Picking  up  gold  —  in  reality. 

With  extempore  carts  she  never  played, 
Or  the  odds  and  ends  of  a  Tinker's  trade, 
Or  little  dirt  pies  and  puddings  made, 

Like  children  happy  and  squalid ; 
The  very  puppet  she  had  to  pet. 
Like  a  bait  for  the  "  Xix  my  Dolly  "  set, 

Was  a  dolly  of  gold  —  and  solid  ! 


MISS  KILMANSEQG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        245 

Gold  !  and  gold  !  't  was  the  burden  still ! 
To  gain  the  heiress's  early  good  will 

There  was  much  corruption  and  bribery ; 
The  yearly  cost  of  her  golden  toys 
Would  have  given  half  London's  charity-boys 
And  charity-girls  the  annual  joys 

Of  a  holiday  dinner  at  Highbury. 

Bon-bons  she  ate  from  the  gilt  cornet ; 
And  gilded  queens  on  St.  Bartlemy's  day  ; 

Till  her  fancy  was  tinged  by  her  presents  — 
And  fii'st  a  goldfinch  excited  her  wish, 
Then  a  spherical  bowl  with  its  golden  fish, 

And  then  two  golden  pheasants. 

Nay,  once  she  squalled  and  screamed  like  wild  — 
And  it  shows  how  the  bias  we  give  to  a  child 

Is  a  thing  most  weighty  and  solemn :  — 
But  whence  was  wonder  or  blame  to  spring 
E  little  Miss  K.—  after  such  a  swing  — 
Made  a  dust  for  the  flaming  gilded  thing 

On  the  top  of  the  Fish-street  column  1 

J^er  ISoucation. 

According  to  metaphysical  creed. 

To  the  earliest  books  that  children  read 

For  much  good  or  much  bad  they  are  debtors  — 
But  before  with  their  ABC  they  start, 
There  are  things  in  morals,  as  well  as  art. 
That  play  a  very  important  part  — 

"  Impressions  before  the  ktters." 

Dame  Education  begms  the  pile. 
Mayhap  in  the  graceful  Corinthian  style. 
But  alas  for  the  elevation  ! 
21* 


246        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

If  the  lady's  maid  or  Gossip  the  nurse 
With  a  load  of  rubbish,  or  something  worse, 
Have  made  a  rotten  foundation. 

Even  thus  with  little  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Before  she  learnt  her  E  for  egg, 

Ere  her  governess  came,  or  her  masters  — 
Teachers  of  quite  a  different  kind 
Had  "crammed"  her  beforehand,  and  put  her  mind 

In  a  go-cart  on  golden  castors. 

Long  before  her  A  B  and  C, 

They  had  taught  her  by  heart  her  L.  S.  D., 

And  as  how  she  was  born  a  great  heiress ; 
And  as  sure  as  London  is  built  of  bricks, 
My  lord  would  ask  her  the  day  to  fix 
To  ride  in  a  fine  gilt  coach  and  six, 

Like  Her  Worship  the  Lady  Mayoress. 

Instead  of  stories  from  Edgeworth's  page. 
The  true  golden  lore  for  our  golden  age. 

Or  lessons  from  Barbauld  and  Trimmer, 
Teaching  the  worth  of  virtue  and  health, 
All  that  she  knew  was  the  virtue  of  wealth, 
Provided  by  vulgar  nursery  stealth 

With  a  book  of  leaf-gold  for  a  primer. 

The  very  metal  of  merit  they  told. 

And  praised  her  for  being  as  "  good  as  gold  ! " 

Till  she  grew  as  a  peacock  haughty  ; 
Of  money  they  talked  the  whole  day  round, 
And  weighed  desert  like  grapes  by  the  pound. 
Till  she  had  an  iiea  from  the  very  sound 

That  people  with  naught  were  naughty. 

They  praised  —  poor  children  with  nothing  at  all ! 
Lord  !  how  you  twaddle  and  waddle  and  squall. 
Like  common-bred  geese  and  ganders  ! 


MISS    IvILMANSEGG    AND    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG.        247 

What  sad  little  bad  little  figures  you  make 
To  the  rich  Miss  K.,  whose  plainest  seed-cake 
Was  stuffed  with  corianders  ! 

They  praised  her  falls,  as  well  as  her  walk, 

Flatterers  make  cream  cheese  of  chalk, 

They  praised  —  how  they  praised  —  her  very  small  talk 

As  if  it  fell  from  a  Solon  ! 
Or  the  girl  who  at  each  pretty  phrase  let  drop 
A  ruby  comma,  or  pearl  full-stop, 

Or  an  emerald  semi-colon. 

They  praised  her  spirit,  and  now  and  then 
The  nurse  brought  her  own  little  "  nevy  "  Ben, 

To  play  with  the  future  mayoress : 
And  when  he  got  raps,  and  taps,  and  slaps. 
Scratches  and  pinches,  snips  and  snaps. 

As  if  from  a  tigress,  or  bearess, 
They  told  him  how  lords  would  court  that  hand, 
And  always  gave  him  to  understand, 
While  he  rubi^ed,  poor  soul. 
His  carrotty  poll. 

That  his  hair  had  been  pulled  by  "  a  hairess." 

Such  were  the  lessons  from  maid  and  nurse, 
A  governess  helped  to  make  still  worse, 
Giving  an  appetite  so  perverse 

Fresh  diet  whereon  to  batten  — 
Beginning  with  A  B  C  to  hold 
Like  a  royal  playbill  printed  in  gold 

On  a  square  of  pearl-white  satin. 

The  books  to  teach  the  verbs  and  nouns. 
And  those  about  countries,  cities  and  towns, 
Instead  of  their  sober  di'abs  and  browns, 

Were  in  crimson  silk,  with  gilt  edges ;  — 
Her  Butler,  and  Enfield,  and  Entick  —  in  short, 


248        MISS    KILilAXSEGG    AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 

Her  "early  lessons"  of  every  sort, 

Looked  like  souvenirs,  keepsakes,  and  pledges. 

Old  Johnson  shone  out  in  as  fine  array 

As  he  did  one  night  when  he  vrent  to  the  play  ; 

Chambaud  Kke  a  beau  of  King  Charles's  day  — 

Lindlej  Murray  in  like  conditions  ; 
Each  vreary,  unwelcome,  irksome  task, 
Appeared  in  a  fancy  dress  and  a  mask  — 
If  you  wish  for  similar  copies,  ask 

For  Howell  and  James's  editions. 

Novels  she  read  to  amuse  her  mind. 

But  ahvavs  the  affluent  match-making;  kind. 

That  ends  with  Promessi  Sposi, 
And  a  father-in-law  so  wealthy  and  grand, 
He  could  give  check-mate  to  Coutts  in  the  Strand 

So,  along  with  a  ring  and  posy, 
He  endows  the  bride  with  Golconda  off-hand, 

And  gives  the  groom  Potosi. 

Plays  she  perused  —  but  she  liked  the  best 
'  Those  comedy  gentlefolks  always  possessed 

Of  fortunes  so  truly  romantic  — 
Of  money  so  ready  that  right  or  wrong 
It  always  is  ready  to  go  for  a  song. 
Throwing  it,  going  it,  pitching  it  strong  — 
They  ought  to  have  purses  as  green  and  long 

As  the  cacumber  called  the  Gigantic. 

Then  Eastern  tales  she  loved  for  the  sake 
Of  the  pui^e  of  Oriental  make. 

And  the  thousand  pieces  they  put  in  it ; 
But  pastoral  scenes  on  her  heart  fell  cold, 
For  Nature  with  her  had  lost  its  hold, 
No  field  but  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold 

"Would  ever  have  caught  her  foot  in  it. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   AIsD    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        249 

What  more  7     She  learnt  to  sing  and  dance, 
To  sit  on  a  horse,  although  he  should  prance, 
And  to  speak  a  French  not  spoken  in  France 

Any  more  than  at  Babel's  building  ; 
And  she  painted  shells,  and  flowers,  and  Turks, 
But  her  great  delight  was  in  foncy  works 

That  are  done  with  gold  or  gilding. 
Gold  !  still  gold  !  —  the  bright  and  the  dead, 
With  golden  beads,  and  gold  lace,  and  gold  thread, 
She  worked  in  gold,  as  if  for  her  bread  ; 

The  metal  had  so  undermined  her. 
Gold  ran  m  her  thoughts  and  filled  her  brain, 
She  was  golden-headed  as  Peter's  cane 
With  which  he  walked  behind  her. 

J^tv  ^accCUent. 
The  horse  that  carried  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
And  a  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Was  a  very  rich  bay,  called  Banker ; 
A  horse  of  a  breed  and  a  metal  so  rare, — , 
By  Bullion  out  of  an  Ingot  mare, — 
That  for  action,  the  best  of  figures,  and  air. 

It  made  many  good  judges  hanker. 

And  when  she  took  a  ride  in  the  park, 
Equestrian  lord,  or  pedestrian  clerk, 

Was  thrown  in  an  amorous  fever, 
To  see  the  heiress  how  well  she  sat. 
With  her  groom  behind  her.  Bob  or  Nat, 
In  green,  half  smothered  with  gold,  and  a  hat 

With  more  gold  lace  than  beaver. 

And  then  when  Banker  obtained  a  pat. 
To  see  how  he  arched  his  neck  at  that ! 
He  snorted  with  pride  and  pleasure  ! 
Like  the  steed  in  the  fable  so  lofty  and  grand, 


250        MISS   KILMANSEGG    AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 

Wlio  gave  the  poor  ass  to  understiind 
That  he  did  n't  carry  a  bag  of  sand, 
But  a  burden  of  golden  treasure. 

A  load  of  treasure  ?  —  alas  !  alas  ! 

Had  her  horse  but  been  fed  upon  English  grass, 

And  sheltered  in  Yorkshire  spinnejs, 
Had  he  scoured  the  sand  with  the  desert  ass. 

Or  where  the  American  whinnies  — 
But  a  hunter  from  Erin's  turf  and  gorse, 
A  regular  thorough-bred  Irish  horse, 
Whj,  he  ran  away,  as  a  matter  of  course, 

With  a  girl  worth  her  weight  in  guineas  ! 

Mayhap  't  is  the  trick  of  such  pampered  nags 
To  shy  at  the  sisrht  of  a  begmr  in  rao;s. 

But  away,  like  the  bolt  of  a  rabbit, 
Away  went  the  horse  in  the  madness  of  fright, 
And  away  went  the  horsewoman  mocking  the  sight  ■ 
"Was  yonder  blue  flash  a  flash  of  blue  light. 

Or  only  the  skirt  of  her  habit  7 

Away  she  flies,  with  the  groom  behind, — 
It  looks  like  a  race  of  the  Calmuck  kind, 

When  Hymen  himself  is  the  starter  : 
And  the  maid  rides  first  in  the  four-footed  strife. 
Biding,  striding,  as  if  for  her  life, 
While  the  lover  rides  after  to  catch  him  a  wife, 

Althouo;h  it  "s  catchincf  a  Tartar. 

But  the  groom  has  lost  his  glittering  hat  ! 
Though  he  does  not  sigh  and  pull  up  for  that  — 
Alas  !  his  horse  is  a  tit  for  tat 

To  sell  to  a  very  low  bidder  — 
His  wind  is  ruined,  his  shoulder  is  sprung ; 
Things,  though  a  horse  be  handsome  and  young, 

A  purchaser  will  consider. 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        251 

But  Still  flies  the  heiress  through  stones  and  dust ; 
0,  for  a  fall,  if  fall  she  must, 

On  the  gentle  lap  of  Flora  ! 
But  still,  thank  Heaven  !  she  clings  to  her  seat  — 
Away  !  away  !  she  could  ride  a  dead  heat 
With  the  dead  who  ride  so  fast  and  fleet 

In  the  ballad  of  Leonora  ! 

Away  she  gallops  !  — it 's  awful  work  ! 
It 's  faster  than  Turpin's  ride  to  York, 

On  Bess,  that  notable  clipper  ! 
She  has  circled  the  ring  !  —  she  crosses  the  park  ! 
Mazeppa,  although  he  was  stripped  so  stark, 

Mazeppa  could  n't  outstrip  her  ! 

The  fields  seem  running  away  with  the  folks  ! 
The  elms  are  having  a  race  for  the  oaks, 

At  a  pace  that  all  jockeys  disparages  ! 
All,  all  is  racing  !  the  Serpentine 
Seems  rushing  past  like  the  "  arrowy  Rhine," 
The  houses  have  got  on  a  railway  line. 

And  are  ofi"  like  the  first-class  carriages  ! 

She  '11  lose  her  life  !  she  is  losing  her  breath  ! 
A  cruel  chase,  she  is  chasing  Death, 

As  female  shriekings  forewarn  her  : 
And  now  —  as  gratis  as  blood  of  Guelph  — 
She  clears  that  gate,  which  has  cleared  itself 

Since  then,  at  Hyde  Park  Corner ! 

Alas  !  for  the  hope  of  the  Kilmanseggs  ! 
For  her  head,  her  brains,  her  body,  and  legs, 
Her  life 's  not  worth  a  copper  ! 
Willy-nilly, 
In  Piccadilly, 
.V  hundred  hearts  turn  sick  and  chilly, 
A  hundred  voices  cry,  "  Stop  her !  " 


252       MISS  KILMANSEGG  AXD    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

And  one  old  gentleman  stares  and  stands, 
Shakes  his  head  and  lifts  his  hands, 
And  says.  "  How  very  improper  !  " 

On  and  on  !  —  what  a  perilous  run  ! 
The  iron  rails  seem  all  mingling  in  one, 

To  shut  out  the  Green  Park  scenery  ! 
And  now  the  cellar  its  dangers  reveals, 
She  shudders  —  she  shrieks  —  she 's  doomed,  she  feels. 
To  be  torn  by  powers  of  horses  and  wheels, 

Like  a  spinner  by  steam  machinery  ! 

Sick  with  horror  she  shuts  her  eyes, 
But  the  very  stones  seem  uttering  cries. 

As  they  did  to  that  Persian  daughter. 
When  she  climbed  up  the  steep  vociferous  hill, 
Her  little  silver  flagon  to  fill 

"With  the  magical  golden  water  ! 

"  Batter  her  !  shatter  her  ! 

Throw  and  scatter  her  ! ' ' 
Shouts  each  stony-hearted  chatterer. 

'•  Dash  at  the  heavy  Dover  ! 
Spill  her  !  kill  her  !  tear  and  tatter  her  ! 
Smash  her !  crash  her  ! "  (the  stones  did  n't  flatter  her .) 
"  Kick  her  brains  out !  let  her  blood  spatter  her  ! 

Roll  on  her  over  and  over  !  " 

For  so  she  gathered  the  awful  sense 

Of  the  street  in  its  past  uimiacadamized  tense. 

As  the  wild  horse  overran  it, — 
His  four  heels  making  the  clatter  of  six. 
Like  a  devil's  tattoo,  played  with  iron  sticks 

On  a  kettle-drum  of  granite  ! 

On !  still  on  !  she 's  dazzled  with  hints 
Of  oranges,  ribbons,  and  colored  prints, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND    HER  PRECIOUS   LEG.        253 

A  kaleidoscope  jumble  of  shapes  and  tints, 

And  human  faces  all  flashing, 
Bright  and  brief  as  the  sparks  from  the  flints 

That  the  desperate  hoof  keeps  dashing  ! 

On  and  on  !  still  frightfully  fast ! 

Dover-street,  Bond-street,  all  are  past ! 

But  —  yes  —  no  —  yes  !  —  they  're  down  at  last ! 

The  Furies  and  Fates  have  found  them  ! 
Down  they  go  with  a  sparkle  and  crash. 
Like  a  bark  that's  struck  by  the  lightning  flash — ■ 

There 's  a  shriek  —  and  a  sob  — 

And  the  dense  dark  mob 
Like  a  billow  closes  around  them ! 

'P  -W  *ir  Tf  ■T?  "ff 

*  *  *  *  *        ■      * 

"  She  breathes  ! " 
"  She  don't !  " 
"  She '11  recover  !  " 
"  She  won't !  " 
"  She 's  stirring  !  she  's  living,  by  Nemesis  !  " 
Gold,  still  gold  !  on  counter  and  shelf ! 
Golden  dishes  as  plenty  as  delf ! 
Miss  Kilmansegg  's  coming  again  to  herself 
On  an  opulent  goldsmith's  premises  ! 

Gold  !  fine  gold  !  —  both  yellow  and  red, 
Beaten,  and  molten  —  polished,  and  dead  — 
To  see  the  gold  with  profusion  spread 

In  all  forms  of  its  manuficture  I 
But  what  avails  gold  to  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
When  the  femoral  bone  of  her  dexter  leg 

Has  met  with  a  compound  fracture  1 
22 


254       MISS   KILMANSEGG    AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 

Gold  may  soothe  Adversity's  smart ; 
Naj,  help  to  bin«l  up  a  broken  heart : 
But  to  try  it  on  any  other  part 

Were  as  certain  a  disappointment. 
As  if  one  should  rub  the  dish  and  plate, 
Taken  out  of  a  Staffordshire  crate  — 
In  the  hope  of  a  golden  service  of  state  — 

With  Singleton's  "Golden  Ointment." 

%itv    i3cec[ous    Heg. 

"  As  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree  "s  inclined," 
Is  an  adage  often  recalled  to  mind, 

Referring  to  juvenile  bias  : 
And  never  so  well  is  the  verity  seen, 
As  when  to  the  weak,  warped  side  we  lean, 

While  life's  tempests  and  hurricanes  try  us. 

Even  thus  with  Miss  K.  and  her  broken  limb, 
By  a  very,  very  remarkable  whim, 

She  showed  her  early  tuition  : 
While  the  buds  of  character  came  into  blow 
With  a  certain  tmge  that  served  to  show 
The  nursery  culture  loner  aero. 

As  the  graft  is  known  by  fruition  ! 

For  the  king's  physician,  who  nursed  the  case. 
His  verdict  gave  with  an  awful  face. 

And  three  others  concurred  to  egg  it : 
That  the  patient,  to  give  old  Death  the  slip, 
Like  the  Pope,  instead  of  a  personal  trip, 

Must  send  her  leg  as  a  legate. 

The  Ihnb  was  doomed, —  it  couldn't  be  saved, — 
And  like  other  people  the  patient  behaved, 
Nay,  bravely  that  cruel  parting  braved, 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


255 


Which  makes  some  persons  so  falter, 
They  rather  would  part,  without  a  groan, 
With  the  flesh  of  their  flesh,  and  bone  of  their  bone, 

The  J  obtained  at  St.  George's  altar. 

But  "when  it  came  to  fitting  the  stump 
With  a  proxy  limb  —  then  flatly  and  plump 

She  spoke,  in  the  spirit  olden ; 
She  couldn't  —  she  shouldn't — she  wouldn't — have  wood  ! 
Xor  a  leg  of  cork,  if  she  never  stood, 
And  she  swore  an  oath,  or  something  as  good, 

The  proxy  limb  should  be  golden  I 

A  wooden  leg  !  what,  a  sort  of  peg, 

For  your  common  Jockeys  and  Jennies  ! 
No,  no,  her  mother  might  worry  and  plague  — 
Weep,  go  down  on  her  knees,  and  beg, 
But  nothing  would  move  Miss  Kilmansegg  ! 
She  could  —  she  would  have  a  Golden  Leg, 

If  it  cost  ten  thousand  guineas  ! 

Wood  indeed,  in  forest  or  park. 

With  its  sylvan  honors  and  feudal  bark, 

Is  an  aristocratical  article  : 
But  split  and  sawn,  and  hacked  about  town. 
Serving  all  needs  of  pauper  or  clown, 
Trod  on  !  staggered  on  !     Wood  cut  down 

Is  vulgar  —  fibre  and  particle  ! 

And  cork  !  —  when  the  noble  cork-tree  shades 
A  lovely  group  of  Castilian  maids, 

'T  is  a  thino-  for  a  sons;  or  sonnet !  — 
But  cork,  as  it  stops  the  bottle  of  gin. 
Or  bungs  the  beer  —  the  small  beer  —  in, 
It  pierced  her  heart  like  a  corking-pin, 

To  think  of  standing  upon  it ! 


256        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

A  leg  of  gold  —  solid  gold  throughout, 
Nothing  else,  whether  slim  or  stout. 

Should  ever  support  her,  God  willing  ! 
She  must  —  she  could  —  she  would  have  her  whim 
Her  ftxther,  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  him  — 

He  might  kill  her — she  didn't  mind  killing  ! 
He  was  welcome  to  cut  off  her  other  limb  — 

He  might  cut  her  all  off  with  a  shilling ! 

All  other  promised  gifts  were  in  vain, 

Golden  girdle,  or  golden  chain, 

She  writhed  with  impatience  more  than  pain, 

And  uttered  "  pshaws  !  "  and  "  pishes  !  " 
But  a  leg  of  gold  !  as  she  lay  in  bed, 
It  danced  before  her  —  it  ran  in  her  head  ! 

It  jumped  with  her  dearest  wishes  ! 

'•  Gold  —  gold  —  gold  !  0,  let  it  be  gold !  " 
Asleep  or  awake  that  tale  she  told, 

And  when  she  grew  delirious  : 
Till  her  parents  resolved  to  grant  her  wish. 
If  they  melted  down  plate,  and  goblet,  and  dish, 

The  case  was  getting  so  serious. 

So  a  leg  was  made  in  a  comely  mould. 
Of  gold,  fine  virgin  glittering  gold. 

As  solid  as  man  could  make  it  — 
Solid  in  foot,  and  calf,  and  shank, 
*•  A  prodigious  sum  of  money  it  sank ; 
In  fiict,  't  was  a  branch  of  the  family  bank. 

And  no  easy  matter  to  break  it. 

All  sterling  metal, —  not  half-and-half. 

The  goldsmith's  mark  was  stamped  on  the  calf,  — 

'T  was  pure  as  from  Mexican  barter  ! 
And"  to  make  it  more  costly,  just  over  the  knee, 
Where  another  ligature  used  to  be, 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    UER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        257 

Was  a  circle  of  jewels,  worth  shillings  to  see, 
A  new-fangled  budge  of  the  garter  ! 

'T  was  a  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  leg. 
Fit  for  the  court  of  Scander-Beg, 
That  i^recious  leg  of  Miss  Kilmansegg  ! 

For,  thanks  to  parental  bounty, 
Secure  from  mortification's  touch, 
She  stood  on  a  member  that  cost  as  much 

As  a  Member  for  all  the  County  ! 

•  ?^Er   Jfame. 

To  gratify  stern  Ambition's  whims. 

What  hundreds  and  thousands  of  precious  limbs 

On  a  field  of  battle  we  scatter  ! 
Severed  by  sword,  or  bullet,  or  saw, 
Off  they  go,  all  bleeding  and  raw, — 
But  the  public  seems  to  get  the  lock-jaw, 

So  little  is  said  on  the  matter  ! 

Legs,  the  tightest  that  ever  were  seen, 

The  tightest,  the  lightest,  that  danced  on  the  green, 

Cutting  capers  to  sweet  Kitty  Clover ; 
Shattered,  scattered,  cut,  and  bowled  down, 
Off  they  go,  worse  off  for  renown, 
A  line  in  the  Times^  or  a  talk  about  town, 

Than  the  leg  that  a  fly  runs  over  ! 

But  the  precious  Leg  of  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Tho.t  gowden,  goolden,  golden  leg, 

Was  the  theme  of  all  conversation  ! 
Had  it  been  a  pillar  of  church  and  state, 
Or  a  prop  to  support  the  whole  dead  weight. 
It  could  not  have  furnished  more  debate 

To  the  heads  and  tails  of  the  nation ! 
22* 


258         MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

East  and  west,  and  north  and  south, 

Though  useless  for  either  hunger  or  drouth, — ■ 

The  Leg  was  in  everybody's  mouth, 

To  use  a  poetical  figure ; 
Rumor,  in  taking  her  ravenous  swim, 
Saw,  and  seized  on  the  tempting  limb. 

Like  a  shark  on  the  leg  of  a  nigger. 

Wilful  murder  fell  very  dead ; 

Debates  in  the  House  were  hardly  read ; 

In  vain  the  police  reports  were  fed 

With  L-ish  riots  and  mmpuses  — 
The  Leg  !  the  Leg  !  was  the  great  event ; 
Through  every  circle  in  life  it  went. 

Like  the  leg  of  a  pair  of  compasses. 

The  last  new  novel  seemed  tame  and  flat ; 
The  Leg,  a  novelty  newer  than  that, 

Had  tripped  up  the  heels  of  fiction  !    ' 
It  Burked  the  very  essays  of  Burke, 
And,  alas  !  how  wealth  over  wit  plays  the  Turk  ! 
As  a  regular  piece  of  goldsmith's  work, 

Got  the  better  of  Goldsmith's  diction. 

"  A  leg  of  gold  !  what,  of  solid  gold  7" 
Cried  rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

And  Master  and  Miss  and  ]\Iadam ; 
'T  was  the  talk  of  'change  — the  alley  —  the  bank  ■ 
And  with  men  of  scientific  rank 
It  made  as  much  stir  as  the  fossil  shank 

Of  a  lizard  coeval  with  Adam ! 

Of  course  with  Greenwich  and  Chelsea  elves, 

Men  who  had  lost  a  limb  themselves, 

Its  interest  did  not  dwindle ; 
But  Bill,  and  Ben,  and  Jack,  and  Tom, 


MISS    KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        259 


Could  hardly  have  spun  more  yarns  therefrom, 
If  the  leg  had  been  a  spindle. 

jMeainvliile  the  story  Avent  to  and  fro, 
Till,  gathering  like  the  ball  of  snow. 
By  the  time  it  got  to  Stratford-le-Bow, 

Through  exaggeration's  touches. 
The  heiress  and  hope  of  the  Ivilmanseggs 
Was  propped  on  two  fine  golden  legs, 

And  a  pair  of  golden  crutches  ! 

Never  had  leg  so  great  a  run  ! 

'T  was  the  "  go  "  and  the  "  kick  "  thrown  into  one 

The  mode  —  the  new  thing  under  the  sun  ! 

The  rage  —  the  fancy  —  the  passion  ! 
Bonnets  were  named,  and  hats  were  worn, 
A  la  golden  leg  instead  of  Leghorn, 
And  stockings  and  shoes 
Of  golden  hues 
Took  the  lead  in  the  walks  of  fashion ! 

The  Golden  Leg  had  a  vast  career. 

It  was  sung  and  danced  —  and  to  show  how  near 

Low  folly  to  lofty  approaches, 
Down  to  society's  very  dregs, 
The  belles  of  Wapping  wore  "  Kilmanseggs," 
And  St.  Giles's  beaux  sported  golden  legs 

In  their  pinchbeck  pins  and  brooches ! 

31^ev   JFirst   Step. 

Supposing  the  trunk  and  limbs  of  man 
Shared,  on  the  allegorical  plan. 

By  the  passions  that  mark  humanity. 
Whichever  might  claim  the  head,  or  heart, 
The  stomach,  or  any  other  part. 

The  legs  would  be  seized  by  Vanity. 


'160         MISS    KIIJMAXSEGG    AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 

There's  Bardus.  a  six-foot  column  of  fop, 
A  lighthouse  without  anj  light  atop, 

Whose  height  would  attract  beholders, 
If  he  had  not  lost  some  inches  clear 
By  looking  down  at  his  kerseymere, 
Ogling  the  limbs  he  holds  so  dear, 

Till  he  got  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders. 

Calk  of  art.  of  science,  or  books, 
A.nd  down  go  the  everlasting  looks. 

To  his  crural  beauties  so  wedded  ! 
Try  him.  whenever  you  will,  you  find 
Bjs  mind  in  his  legs,  and  his  legs  in  his  mind, 
All  prongs  and  folly  —  in  short,  a  kind 
Of  fork  — that  is  fiddle-headed. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
With  a  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  Leg, 
Fit  for  the  court  of  Scander-Bes:, 
Disdained  to  hide  it,  like  Joan  or  Meg, 

In  petticoats  stuffed  or  quilted? 
Not  she  !  't  was  her  convalescent  whim 
To  dazzle  the  world  with  her  precious  limb,- 

Nay,  to  go  a  little  high-kilted. 

So  cards  Avere  sent  for  that  sort  of  mob 
Where  Tartars  and  Africans  hob-and-nob, 
And  the  Cherokee  talks  of  his  cab  and  cob 

To  Polish  or  Lapland  lovers  — 
Cards  like  that  hieroglyphical  call 
To  a  geographical  Fancy  Ball 

On  the  recent  post-office  covers. 

For  if  lion-hunters  —  and  great  ones  too  — 

Would  mob  a  savage  from  Latakoo. 

Or  squeeze  for  a  glimpse  of  Prince  Le  Boo, 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.       261 

That  unfortunate  Sandwich  scion  — 
Hundreds  of  first-rate  people,  no  doubt, 
Would  gladly,  madlj,  rush  to  a  rout, 

That  promised  a  Golden  Lion  ! 

^et  3ancs  33all. 

Of  all  the  spirits  of  evil  fame 

That  hurt  the  soul  or  injure  the  frame, 

And  poison  what 's  honest  and  hearty. 
There 's  none  more  needs  a  Mathew  to  preach 
A  cooling,  antiphlogistic  speech, 
To  praise  and  enforce 
A  temperate  course, 
Than  the  Evil  Spirit  of  Party. 

Go  to  the  House  of  Commons,  or  Lords, 
And  they  seem  to  be  busy  with  simple  words 

In  their  popular  sense  or  pedantic  — 
But,  alas  !  with  their  cheers,  and  sneers,  and  jeers, 
They  're  really  busy,  whatever  appears, 
Putting  peas  in  each  other's  ears, 

To  drive  their  enemies  frantic  ! 

Thus  Tories  love  to  worry  the  Whigs, 

Who  treat  them  in  turn  like  Schwalbach  pigs, 

Gi^ang  them  lashes,  thrashes,  and  digs, 

With  their  writliing  and  pain  delighted  — 
But  after  all  that 's  said,  and  more, 
The  malice  and  spite  of  Party  are  poor 
To  the  malice  and  spite  of  a  party  next  door, 

To  a  party  not  invited. 

On  with  the  cap  and  out  with  the  light. 
Weariness  bids  the  world  good-night, 

At  least  for  the  usual  season  ; 
But,  hark  !  a  clatter  of  horses'  heels ; 


262       MISS    KILMANSEGG    AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

And  Sleep  and  Silence  are  broken  on  wheels, 
Like  Wilful  Murder  and  Treason  ! 

Another  crash  —  and  the  carriage  goes  — 
Again  poor  Weariness  seeks  the  repose 

That  Nature  demands  imperious  ; 
But  Echo  takes  up  the  burden  noAf, 
With  a  rattling  chorus  of  row-de-dow-dow, 
Till  Silence  herself  seems  making  a  row, 

Like  a  Quaker  gone  delirious  ! 

'T  is  night  —  a  winter  night  —  and  the  stars 
Are  shining  like  winkin'  — Venus  and  Mars 
Are  rolling  along  in  their  golden  cars 

Through  the  sky's  serene  expansion  — • 
But  vainly  the  stars  dispense  their  rays, 
Venus  and  Mars  are  lost  in  the  blaze 

Of  the  Kilmanseggs'  luminous  mansion  ! 

Up  jumps  Fear  in  a  terrible  fright .' 
His  bed-chamber  windows  look  so  bright, 

With  light  all  the  square  is  glutted  ! 
Up  he  jumps,  like  a  sole  from  the  pan, 
And  a  tremor  sickens  his  inward  man, 
For  he  feels  as  only  a  gentleman  can 

Who  thinks  he  's  being  "  gutted." 

Again  Fear  settles,  all  snug  and  warm ; 
But  only  to  dream  of  a  dreadful  storm 

From  Autumn's  sulphurous  locker  : 
But  the  only  electric  body  that  falls 
Wears  a  negative  coat  and  positive  smalls, 
And  draws  the  peal  that  so  appalls 

From  the  Kilmanseggs'  brazen  knocker  I 

'T  is  Curiosity's  benefit  night  — 

And  perchance  't  is  the  English  second-sight, 


1 


MISS   KILMAXSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


268 


But  whatever  it  be,  so  be  it  — 
As  the  friends  and  guests  of  Miss  Kilmansegg 
Crowd  in  to  look  at  her  Golden  Leg, 

As  many  more 

Mob  round  the  door, 
To  see  them  going  to  see  it ! 

In  they  go  —  in  jackets  and  cloaks, 
Plumes,  and  bonnets,  turbans,  and  toques, 

As  if  to  a  Congress  of  Nations  : 
Greeks  and  Malays,  with  daggers  and  dirks, 
Spaniards,  Jews,  Chinese,  and  Turks  — 
Some  like  original  foreign  works, 

But  mostly  like  bad  translations. 

In  they  go,  and  to  work  like  a  pack, 

Juan,  Moses,  and  Shachabac, 

Tom.  and  Jerry,  and  Springheeled  Jack, 

For  some  of  low  Fancy  are  lovers  — 
Skirtincr.  zigzaorwing   castino;  about, 
Here  and  there,  and  in  and  out, 
With  a  crush,  and  a  rush,  for  a  full-bodied  rout 

In  one  of  the  stiffest  of  covers. 

In  they  went,  and  hunted  about, 
Open-mouthed  like  chub  and  trout. 
And  some  with  the  upper  lip  thrust  out. 

Like  that  fish  for  routing,  a  barbel  — 
While  Sir  Jacob  stood  to  welcome  the  crowd, 
And  rubbed  his  hands,  and  smiled  aloud. 
And  bowed,  and  bowed,  and  bowed,  and  bowed. 

Like  a  man  who  is  sawing  marble. 

For  princes  were  there,  and  noble  peers  ; 
Dukes  descended  from  Noi-man  spears ; 
Earls  that  dated  from  early  years ; 


264        MISS    KILMANSEGG    AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

And  lords  in  vast  variety  — 
Besides  the  gentry  both  new  and  old  — 
For  people  who  stand  on  legs  of  gold 

Are  sure  to  stand  well  with  society. 

"  But  where  —  where  —  where  ?  "  with  one  accord 
Cried  Moses  and  Mufti,  Jack  and  my  Lord, 

Wang-Fong  and  II  Bondocani  — 
When  slow,  and  heavy,  and  dead  as  a  dump, 
They  heard  a  foot  begin  to  stump. 
Thump  !  lump  ! 
Lump !  thump ! 
Like  the  spectre  in  "  Don  Giovanni !  " 

And,  lo  !  the  heiress,  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
With  her  splendid,  brilliant,  beautiful  leg, 

In  the  garb  of  a  goddess  olden  — 
Like  chaste  Diana  going  to  hunt, 
With  a  golden  spear  —  which  of  course  was  blunt. 
And  a  tunic  looped  up  to  a  gem  in  front. 

To  show  the  Leg  that  was  Golden  ! 

Gold  !  still  gold  !  her  Crescent  behold. 
That  should  be  silver,  but  would  be  gold  ; 

And  her  robe's  auriferous  spangles  ! 
Her  golden  stomacher  —  how  she  would  melt ! 
Her  golden  quiver  and  golden  belt. 

Where  a  golden  bugle  dangles  ! 

And  her  jewelled  garter  1     0,  sin  !   0,  shame  ' 
Let  Pride  and  Vanity  bear  the  blame. 
That  brings  such  blots  on  female  fame  ! 

But  to  be  a  true  recorder. 
Besides  its  thin  transparent  stuff, 
The  tunic  was  looped  quite  high  enough 

To  give  a  glimpse  of  the  Order  ! 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        265 

But  what  have  sin  or  shame  to  do 

With  a  Golden  Leg  —  and  a  stout  one,  too  1 

Awaj  with  all  Prudery's  panics  ! 
That  the  precious  metal,  by  thick  and  thin, 
Will  cover  square  acres  of  land  or  sin, 
Is  a  fact  made  plain 
Again,  and  again, 
In  morals  as  well  as  mechanics. 

A  few,  indeed,  of  her  proper  sex. 

Who  seemed  to  feel  her  foot  on  their  necks, 

And  feared  then-  charms  would  meet  with  checks 

From  so  rare  and  splendid  a  blazon  — 
A  few  cried  "  fie  !  "  —  and  ■  ■  forward " '  —  and  ' '  bold ! ' 
And  said  of  the  Leg  it  might  be  gold, 

But  to  them  it  looked  like  brazen  ! 

'T  was  hard,  they  hinted,  for  flesh  and  blood, 
Virtue,  and  beauty,  and  all  that 's  good, 

To  strike  to  mere  dross  their  topgallants  — 
But  what  were  beauty,  or  virtue,  or  worth, 
Gentle  manners,  or  gentle  birth. 
Nay,  what  the  most  talented  head  on  earth 

To  a  Leg  worth  fifty  Talents  ! 

But  the  men  sang  quite  another  hymn 

Of  glory  and  praise  to  the  precious  limb  — 

Age,  sordid  age,  admired  the  whim, 

And  its  indecorum  pardoned  — 
While  half  of  the  young  —  ay,  more  than  half — 
Bowed  down  and  worshipped  the  Golden  Calf, 

Like  the  Jews  when  their  hearts  were  hardened. 

A  Golden  Leg  !  what  fancies  it  fired  ! 
What  golden  wishes  and  hopes  mspired  ! 
To  give  but  a  mere  abridgment  — 
23 


266        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AXD    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


What  a  leg  to  leg-bail  Embarrassment's  serf ! 
What  a  leg  for  a  leg  to  take  on  the  turf ! 
What  a  leg  for  a  marching  regiment ! 

A  Golden  Leg  !  —  whatever  Love  sings, 

'T  was  worth  a  bushel  of  ■•  plain  gold  I'ings," 

With  which  the  romantic  wheedles. 
'T  was  worth  all  the  legs  in  stockings  and  socks 
'T  was  a  leg  that  might  be  i^ut  in  the  stocks, 

N.  B. —  Not  the  parish  beadle's  ! 

And  Ladj  K.  nid-nodded  her  head, 
Lapped  in  a  turban  fancj-bred, 
Just  like  a  love-apple,  huge  and  red, 
Some  Mussul- womanish  mystery  ; 
But  whatever  she  meant 
To  represent, 
She  talked  like  the  Muse  of  History. 

She  told  how  the  filial  leg  was  lost : 
And  then  how  much  the  gold  one  cost 

With  its  weight  to  a  Trojan  fraction 
And  how  it  took  off,  and  how  it  put  on 
And  called  on  Devil,  Duke,  and  Don, 
Mahomet,  Moses,  and  Prester  John, 

To  notice  its  beautiful  action. 

And  then  of  the  Leg  she  went  in  quest ; 
And  led  it  where  the  light  was  best ; 
And  made  it  lay  itself  up  to  rest 

In  postures  for  painters'  studies  : 
It  cost  more  tricks  and  trouble,  by  half. 
Than  it  takes  to  exhibit  a  six-leg-cred  calf 

To  a  boothful  of  country  cuddies. 

Nor  yet  did  the  heiress  herself  omit 
The  arts  that  help  to  make  a  hit, 


MISS  KTLMANSEGQ   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


267 


And  preserve  a  prominent  station. 
She  talked  and  laughed  far  more  than  her  share ; 
And  took  a  part  in  '•  Rich  and  Rare 
Were  the  Gems  she  wore  " — and  the  gems  were  there^ 

Like  a  song  with  an  illustration. 

She  even  stood  up  Avith  a  count  of  France 
To  dance  —  alas  !  the  measui-es  we  dance 

When  Vanity  plays  the  piper  ! 
Vanity,  Vanity,  apt  to  betray, 
And  lead  all  sorts  of  legs  astray, 
Wood,  or  metal,  or  human  clay, — 

Since  Satan  first  played  the  viper  ! 

But  first  she  doffed  her  hunting  gear, 

And  favored  Tom  Tug  with  her  golden  spear, 

To  row  with  down  the  river  — 
A  Bonze  had  her  golden  bow  to  hold ; 
A  Hermit  her  belt  and  bugle  of  gold ; 

And  an  Abbot  her  golden  quiver. 

And  then  a  space  was  cleared  on  the  floor, 
And  she  walked  the  Minuet  de  la  Cour, 
With  all  the  pomp  of  a  Pompadour ; 

But,  although  she  began  andante, 
Conceive  the  faces  of  all  the  rout, 
When  she  finished  off  with  a  whirligig  bout. 
And  the  Precious  Leg  stuck  stifily  out 

Like  the  leg  of  a  figurante,  ! 

So  the  courtly  dance  was  goldenly  done. 
And  golden  opinions,  of  course,  it  won 

From  all  different  sorts  of  people  — 
Chiming,  ding-dong,  with  flattering  phrase, 
In  one  vociferous  peal  of  praise, 
Like  the  peal  that  rings  on  royal  days 

From  Loyalty's  parish  steeple. 


•268        MISS  KILMANSEGG   AXD    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

And  yet,  had  the  leg  been  one  of  those 
That  dance  for  bread  in  flesh-colored  hose, 

"With  Rosina's  pastoral  bevy, 
The  jeers  it  had  met, —  the  shouts  !  the  scoff ! 
The  cutting  advice  to  "take  itself  off," 

For  sounding  but  half  so  heairy. 

Had  it  been  a  leg  like  those,  perchance, 
That  teach  little  girls  and  boys  to  dance, 
To  set,  poussette,  recede,  and  advance. 

With  the  steps  and  figures  most  proper, — 
Had  it  hopped  for  a  weekly  or  quarterly  sum, 
How  little  of  praise  or  grist  would  have  come 

To  a  mill  with  such  a  hopper  ! 

But  the  Leg  was  none  of  those  limbs  forlorn  — 
Bartering  capers  and  hops  for  corn  — 
That  meet  with  public  hisses  and  scorn, 

Or  the  morning  journal  denounces  — 
Had  it  pleased  to  caper  from  morn  till  dusk, 
There  was  all  the  music  of  '•  Money  Musk  " 

In  its  ponderous  bangs  and  bounces. 

But  hark  !  —  as  slow  as  the  strokes  of  a  pump, 
Lump,  thump ! 
Thump,  lump  ! 
As  the  Giant  of  Castle  Otranto  might  stump 

To  a  lower  room  from  an  upper  — 
Down  she  goes  with  a  noisy  dint. 
For,  taking  the  crimson  turban's  hint, 
A  noble  lord  at  the  head  of  the  Mint 
Is  leading  the  Leg  to  supper ! 

But  the  supper,  alas  !  must  rest  untold. 
With  its  blaze  of  light  and  its  glitter  of  gold, 
For  to  paint  that  scene  of  glamour, 


MISS   KILMANSEGG    AXD    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        269 

It  would  need  the  great  Enchanter's  charm, 
Who  waves  over  palace,  and  cot,  and  farm, 
An  arm  like  the  goldbeater's  golden  arm 
That  wields  a  golden  hammer. 

He  —  only  He  —  could  fitly  state 

The  Massive  Service  of  Golden  Plate, 

With  the  proper  phrase  and  expansion  — 
The  Rare  Selection  of  Foreign  Wines  — 
The  Alps  of  Ice  and  Mountains  of  Pines, 
The  punch  in  Oceans  and  sugary  shrines, 
The  Temple  of  Taste  from  Gunter's  Designs  — 
In  short,  all  that  Wealth  with  a  Feast  combines, 

In  a  Splendid  Family  Mansion. 

Sufl&ce  it  each  masked  outlandish  guest 
Ate  and  drank  of  the  very  best, 

According  to  critical  conners  — 
And  then  they  pledged  the  hostess  and  host, 
But  the  Golden  Leg  was  the  standing  toast. 
And,  as  somebody  swore, 
Walked  off  with  more 
Than  its  share  of  the  "  hips  !  "  and  honors  ! 

"  Miss  Kilmansegg  !  — 
Full  glasses  I  beg  !  — 
Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg !  " 

And  away  went  the  bottle  careering  ! 
Wine  in  bumpers  !  and  shouts  in  peals  ! 
Till  the  Clown  did  n't  know  his  head  from  his  heels. 
The  Mussulman's  eyes  danced  two-some  reels, 
And  the  Quaker  was  hoarse  with  cheering  ! 
f^tv  JDtcam. 
Miss  Kilmansegg  took  off  her  Leg, 
And  laid  it  down  like  a  cribbage-peg, 
28* 


270 


MISS    KILMANSEGG   AXD    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG. 


For  the  rout  was  done  and  the  riot : 
The  square  was  hushed ;  not  a  sound  was  heard ; 
The  sky  was  gray,  and  no  creature  stirred, 
Except  one  little  precocious  bird, 

That  chii-ped  —  and  then  was  quiet. 

So  still  without. —  so  still  within  :  — 
It  had  been  a  sin 
To  di'op  a  pin  — 
So  intense  is  silence  after  a  din. 

It  seemed  like  Death's  rehearsal ! 
To  stir  the  air  no  eddy  came ; 
And  the  taper  burnt  ynth  as  still  a  flame, 
As  to  flicker  had  been  a  burning  shame, 
In  a  calm  so  universal. 

The  time  for  sleep  had  come,  at  last ; 
And  there  was  the  bed,  so  soft,  so  vast. 

Quite  a  field  of  Bedfordshire  clover ; 
Softer,  cooler,  and  calmer,  no  doubt, 
From  the  piece  of  work  just  ravelled  out, 
For  one  of  the  pleasures  of  having  a  rout 

Is  the  pleasure  of  having  it  over. 

No  sordid  pallet,  or  truckle  mean, 

Of  straw,  and  rug.  and  tatters  unclean ; 

But  a  splendid,  gilded,  carved  machine, 

That  was  fit  for  a  royal  chamber. 
On  the  top  was  a  gorgeous  golden  wreath ; 
And  the  damask  curtains  hunor  beneath. 

Like  clouds  of  crimson  and  amber. 

Curtains,  held  up  by  two  little  plump  things, 
With  golden  bodies  and  golden  wings, — 
Mere  fins  for  such  solidities  — 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        271 

Two  Cupids,  in  short, 
Of  the  regular  sort, 
But  the  housemaid  called  them  "  Cupidities.'' 

No  patchwork  quilt,  all  seams  and  scars, 
But  velvet,  powdered  with  golden  stars, 

A  fit  mantle  for  iVi  o-A^commanders  ! 
And  the  pillow,  as  -fl-hite  as  snow  undimmed. 
And  as  cool  as  the  pool  that  the  breeze  has  skimmed, 
Was  cased  in  the  finest  cambric,  and  trimmed 

With  the  costliest  lace  of  Flanders. 

And  the  bed  —  of  the  eider's  softest  down, 
'T  was  a  place  to  revel,  to  smother,  to  drown 

In  a  bliss  inferred  by  the  poet ; 
For  if  ignorance  be  indeed  a  bliss, 
What  blessed  ignorance  equals  this. 

To  sleep  —  and  not  to  know  it  7 

0,  bed  !  0,  bed  !  delicious  bed  ! 

That  heaven  upon  earth  to  the  weary  head ; 

But  a  place  that  to  name  would  be  ill-bred. 

To  the  head  with  a  wakeful  trouble  — 
'T  is  held  by  such  a  different  lease  ! 
To  one,  a  place  of  comfort  and  peace, 
All  stuffed  with  the  down  of  stubble  geese. 

To  another  with  only  the  stubble  ! 

To  one  a  perfect  halcyon  nest, 

All  calm,  and  balm,  and  quiet,  and  rest, 

And  soft  as  the  fur  of  the  cony  — 
To  another,  so  restless  for  body  and  head. 
That  the  bed  seems  borrowed  from  Nettlebed, 

And  the  pillow  from  Stratford  the  Stony  ! 

To  the  happy,  a  first-class  carriage  of  ease, 
To  the  Land  of  Nod,  or  where  you  please ; 


272        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

But  alas  !  for  the  watchers  and  -weepers, 
Who  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 
But  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  in  vain. 
With  an  anxious  brain, 
And  thoughts  in  a  train 
That  does  not  run  upon  sleepers  ! 

Wide  awake  as  the  mousing  owl, 
Night-hawk,  or  other  nocturnal  fowl, — 

But  more  profitless  vigils  keeping, — 
Wide  awake  in  the  dark  thej  stare. 
Filling  with  phantoms  the  vacant  air. 
As  if  that  crook-backed  tyrant  Care 

Had  plotted  to  kill  them  sleeping. 

And  0  !  when  the  blessed  diurnal  light 
Is  quenched  by  the  providential  night, 

To  render  our  slumber  more  certain, 
Pity,  pity  the  wretches  that  weep, 
For  they  must  be  wretched  who  cannot  sleep 

When  God  himself  draws  the  curtain ! 

The  careful  Betty  the  pillow  beats, 

And  airs  the  blankets,  and  smooths  the  sheets, 

And  gives  the  mattress  a  shaking  — 
But  vainly  Betty  performs  her  part, 
K  a  ruffled  head  and  a  rumpled  heart 

As  well  as  the  couch  want  making. 

There 's  Morbid,  all  bile,  and  verjuice,  and  nerves. 
Where  other  people  would  make  preserves, 

He  turns  his  fruits  into  pickles  : 
Jealous,  en\aous,  and  fretful  by  day. 
At  night,  to  his  own  sharp  fancies  a  prey. 
He  lies  like  a  hedgehog  rolled  up  the  wrong  way, 

Tormentmg  himself  with  his  prickles. 


MISS   KILMAX3EGG    AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        273 

But  a  child  —  that  bids  the  world  orood-night, 
In  downright  earnest,  and  cuts  it  quite  — 

A  cherub  no  art  can  copy, — 
'T  is  a  perfect  picture  to  see  him  lie 
As  if  he  had  supped  on  dormouse  pie, 
(An  ancient  classical  dish,  by  the  by) 

With  sauce  of  syrup  of  poppy. 

0,  bed  !  bed  !  bed  !  delicious  bed  ! 

That  heaven  upon  earth  to  the  weary  head. 

Whether  lofty  or  low  its  condition  ! 
But,  instead  of  putting  our  plagues  on  shelves, 
In  our  blankets  how  often  we  toss  ourselves, 
Or  are  tossed  by  such  allegorical  elves 

As  Pride,  Hate,  Greed,  and  Ambition  ! 

The  independent  Miss  Kilmansegg 
Took  oflF  her  independent  Leg 

And  laid  it  beneath  her  pillow, 
And  then  on  the  bed  her  frame  she  cast ; 
The  time  for  repose  had  come  at  last, 
But  long,  long  after  the  storm  is  past 

Rolls  the  turbid,  turbulent  billow. 

Xo  part  she  had  in  vulgar  cares 

That  belong  to  common  household  affairs  — 

Nocturnal  annoyances  such  as  theirs 

Who  lie  with  a  shrewd  surmising 
That  while  they  are  couchant  (a  bitter  cup  ! ) 
Their  bread  and  butter  are  getting  up. 

And  the  coals  —  confound  them  !  —  are  rising 

No  fear  she  had  her  sleep  to  postpone, 
Like  the  crippled  Avidow  who  weeps  alone, 
And  cannot  make  a  doze  her  own. 

For  the  di-ead  that  mayhap  on  the  morrow, 


274       MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

The  true  and  Christian  reading  to  balk, 
A  broker  will  take  up  her  bed  and  walk, 
By  way  of  curing  her  sorrow. 

No  cause  like  these  she  had  to  bewail : 

But  the  breath  of  applause  had  blown  a  gale. 

And  winds  from  that  quarter  seldom  fail 

To  cause  some  human  commotion ; 
But  whenever  such  breezes  coincide 
With  the  very  spring-tide 
Of  human  pride. 
There 's  no  such  swell  on  the  ocean  ! 

Peace,  and  ease,  and  slumber  lost. 

She  turned,  and  rolled,  and  tumbled,  and  tossed, 

With  a  tumult  that  would  not  settle  : 
A  common  case,  indeed,  with  such 
As  have  too  little,  or  think  too  much. 

Of  the  precious  and  glittering  metal. 

Gold  !  —  she  saw  at  her  golden  foot 
The  peer  whose  tree  had  an  olden  root. 
The  proud,  the  great,  the  learned  to  boot, 

The  handsome,  the  gay,  and  the  witty  — 
The  man  of  science  —  of  arms  —  of  art. 
The  man  who  deals  but  at  Pleasure's  mart. 

And  the  man  who  deals  in  the  city. 

Gold,  still  gold  —  and  true  to  the  mould  ! 
In  the  very  scheme  of  her  dream  it  told ; 

For,  by  magical  transmutation. 
From  her  Leg  through  her  body  it  seemed  to.  go, 
Till,  gold  above,  and  gold  below. 
She  was  gold,  all  gold,  from  her  little  gold  toe 

To  her  orsan  of  Veneration  ! 


MISS    KILMAXSEGG    AXD    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 

And  still  she  retained,  through  Fancy's  art, 
The  p;olden  bow.  and  the  orolden  dart, 
With  -which  she  had  played  a  goddess's  part 

In  her  recent  glorification. 
And  still,  like  one  of  the  self-same  brood. 
On  a  plinth  of  the  self-same  metal  she  stood 

For  the  whole  world's  adoration. 

And  hymns  of  incense  around  her  rolled. 
From  golden  harps  and  censers  of  gold,  — 
For  Fancy  in  di-eams  is  as  uncontrolled 

As  a  horse  without  a  bridle  : 
What  wonder,  then,  from  all  checks  exempt, 
If,  inspired  by  the  Golden  Leg.  she  dreamt 

She  was  turned  to  a  golden  idol  7 

?^er    (ttouttsjip. 

When,  leaving  Eden's  happy  land, 
The  grieving  angel  led  by  the  hand 

Our  banished  fother  and  mother, 
Forgotten,  amid  their  awful  doom. 
The  teai-s.  the  fears,  and  the  future's  gloom, 
On  each  brow  was  a  wreath  of  Paradise  bloom, 

That  our  parents  had  twined  for  each  other. 

It  was  only  while  sitting  like  figures  of  stone, 
For  the  grienng  angel  had  skyward  flown, 
As  they  sat,  those  two,  in  the  world  alone, 

With  disconsolate  hearts  nigh  cloven, 
That,  scenting  the  gust  of  happier  hours, 
'They  looked  around  for  the  precious  flowei's. 
And,  lo  !  —  a  last  relic  of  Eden's  dear  bowers  - 

The  chaplet  that  Love  had  woven  ! 

And  still,  when  a  pan-  of  lovers  meet, 
There 's  a  sweetness  in  air,  unearthly  sweet, 


275 


276       MISS    KILMAXSEGG   AXD    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG. 

That  savors  still  of  that  happy  retreat 
Where  Eve  by  Adam  was  courted  : 
Whilst  the  joyous  thrush,  and  the  gentle  dove, 
Wooed  their  mates  in  the  boughs  above, 
And  the  serpent,  as  yet,  only  sported. 

Who  hath  not  felt  that  breath  in  the  air, 

A  perfume  and  freshness  strange  and  rare, 

A  warmth  in  the  light,  and  a  bliss  everywhere, 

When  young  hearts  yearn  together  7 
All  sweets  below,  and  all  sunny  above, 
0  !  there  "s  nothing  in  life  like  making  love, 

Save  making  hay  in  fine  weather  ! 

Who  hath  not  found  amongst  his  flowers 
A  blossom  too  bright  for  this  world  of  ours. 

Like  a  rose  among  snows  of  Sweden  1 
But,  to  turn  again  to  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Where  must  Love  have  gone  to  beg, 
If  such  a  thing  as  a  Golden  Les 

Had  put  its  foot  in  Eden  ? 

And  yet  —  to  tell  the  rigid  truth  — 

Her  favor  was  sought  by  age  and  youth  — 

For  the  prey  will  find  a  prowler  ! 
She  was  followed,  flattered,  courted,  addressed, 
Wooed,  and  cooed,  and  wheedled,  and  pressed, 
By  suitors  from  Xorth,  South,  East,  and  West, 

Like  that  heiress,  in  song,  Tibbie  Fowler  ! 

But,  alas  !  alas  !  for  the  woman's  fate, 
Who  has  from  a  mob  to  choose  a  mate  ! 

'T  is  a  strange  and  painful  mystery ! 
But  the  more  the  eggs,  the  worse  the  hatch  ; 
The  more  the  fish,  the  worse  the  catch ; 
The  more  the  sparks,  the  worse  the  match  ; 

Is  a  fact  in  woman's  history. 


MISS   KILMANSEGG    AND    HER  PRECIOUS   LEG.        277 

Give  her  betAveen  a  brace  to  pick, 

And,  mayhap,  with  luck  to  help  the  trick, 

She  will  take  the  Faustus,  and  leave  the  Old  Nick  — 

But,  her  future  bliss  to  baffle. 
Amongst  a  score  let  her  have  a  voice, 
And  she  '11  have  as  little  cause  to  rejoice 
As  if  she  had  won  the  "  ma,n  of  her  choice  " 

In  a  matrimonial  raffle  ! 

Thus,  even  thus,  with  the  heiress  and  hope, 
Fulfilling  the  adage  of  too  much  rope, 

With  so  ample  a  competition. 
She  chose  the  least  worthy  of  all  the  group, 
Just  as  the  vulture  makes  a  stoop, 
And  singles  out  from  the  herd  or  troop 

The  beast  of  the  worst  condition. 

A  foreign  count  —  who  came  incog.. 
Not  under  a  cloud,  but  under  a  fog, 

In  a  Calais  packet's  fore-cabin. 
To  charm  some  lady  British-born, 
With  his  eyes  as  black  as  the  fruit  of  the  thorn, 
And  his  hooky  nose,  and  his  beard  half-shorn, 

Like  a  half-converted  Rabbin. 

And  because  the  sex  confess  a  charm 

In  the  man  who  has  slashed  a  head  or  arm. 

Or  has  been  a  throat's  undoing, 
He  was  dressed  like  one  of  the  glorious  trade, 
At  least  when  glory  is  off  parade. 
With  a  stock,  and  a  frock,  well  trimmed  with  braid 

And  frogs  —  that  went  a- wooing. 

Moreover,  as  counts  are  apt  to  do, 
On  the  left-hand  side  of  his  dark  surtout, 
At  one  of  those  holes  that  buttons  go  through, 
24 


278        MISS    KILMANSEGG    AXD    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

(To  be  a  precise  recorder), 
A  ribbon  he  wore,  or  rather  a  scrap, 
About  an  inch  of  ribbon  mayhap. 
That  one  of  his  rivals,  a  whimsical  cbap, 

Described  as  his  '•  Retail  Order." 

And  then  —  and  much  it  helped  bis  chance  — 
He  could  sing,  and  play  first  fiddle,  and  dance, 
Perform  charades  and  proverbs  of  France  — 

Act  the  tender,  and  do  the  cruel ; 
For  amongst  his  other  killing  parts. 
He  had  broken  a  brace  of  female  hearts, 

And  murdered  three  men  in  duel ! 

Savage  at  heai-t,  and  false  of  tongue, 
Subtle  with  age,  and  smooth  to  the  young, 

Like  a  snake  in  his  coiling  and  curling  — 
Such  was  the  count  —  to  give  him  a  niche  — 
"Wlio  came  to  court  that  heiress  rich. 
And  knelt  at  her  foot  —  one  need  n't  say  which  — 

Besiegino;  her  castle  of  Sterll/ip-. 

With  prayers  and  vows  he  opened  his  trench, 
And  plied  her  with  English,  Spanish,  and  French, 

In  phrases  the  most  sentimental ! 
And  quoted  poems  in  high  and  low  Dutch. 
With  now  and  then  an  Italian  touch, 
Till  she  yielded,  without  resisting  much, 

To  homage  so  continental. 

And  then,  the  sordid  bargain  to  close, 
With  a  miniature  sketch  of  his  hooky  nose. 
And  his  dear  dark  eyes,  as  black  as  sloes. 
And  his  beard  and  whiskers  as  black  as  those, 

The  lady's  consent  he  requited  — 
And  instead  of  the  lock  that  lovers  beg, 
The  count  received  from  Miss  Kilmansegg 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


279 


A  model,  in  small,  of"  her  Precious  Leg  — 
And  so  the  couple  were  plighted  ! 

But,  0  !  the  love  that  gold  must  crown  ! 
Better  —  better,  the  love  of  the  clown. 
Who  admires  his  lass  in  her  Sunday  gown, 

As  if  all  the  fairies  had  dressed  her ! 
Whose  brain  to  no  crooked  thought  gives  birth, 
Except  that  he  never  will  part  on  earth 

With  his  true  love's  crooked  tester  ! 

Alas  !  for  the  love  that 's  linked  with  gold ! 
Better  —  better  a  thousand  times  told  — 

More  honest,  happy,  and  laudable, 
The  downright  loving  of  pretty  Cis, 
Who  wipes  her  lips,  though  there 's  nothing  amiss, 
And  takes  a  kiss,  and  gives  a  kiss, 

In  which  her  heart  is  audible  ! 

Pretty  Cis,  so  smiling  and  bright, 

Who  loves  as  she  labors,  with  all  her  might. 

And  without  any  sordid  leaven ! 
Who  blushes  as  red  as  haws  and  hips, 
Down  to  her  very  finger-tips. 
For  Roger's  blue  ribbons  —  to  her,  like  strips 

Cut  out  of  the  azure  of  heaven  ! 

JD^er   iHarriage. 

'T  was  morn  —  a  most  auspicious  one  ! 
From  the  irolden  East  the  golden  sun 
Came  forth  his  glorious  race  to  run, 

Through  clouds  of  most  splendid  tinges ; 
Clouds  that  lately  slept  in  shade. 
But  now  seemed  made 
Of  gold  brocade, 
With  magnificent  golden  fringes. 


280       MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

Gold  above,  and  gold  below. 

The  earth  reflected  the  golden  glow, 

From  river,  and  hill,  and  valley  ; 
Gilt  bj  the  golden  light  of  morn. 
The  Thames  —  it  looked  like  the  Golden  Horn, 
And  the  barge  that  carried  coal  or  corn 

Like  Cleopatra's  galley  ! 

Bright  as  a  cluster  of  golden-rod. 
Suburban  poplars  began  to  nod, 

With  extempore  splendor  furnished ; 
While  London  was  bright  with  glittering  clocks 
Golden  dragons,  and  golden  cocks, 
And  above  them  all. 
The  dome  of  St.  Paul, 
With  its  golden  cross  and  its  golden  ball, 
Shone  out  as  if  newly  burnished  ! 

And,  lo  !  for  golden  hours  and  joys. 
Troops  of  glittering  golden  boys 
Danced  along  with  a  jocund  noise, 

And  their  gilded  emblems  carried  ! 
Li  short,  't  was  the  year's  most  golden  day. 
By  mortals  called  the  first  of  May, 
When  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Of  the  Golden  Leg, 
With  a  golden  ring  was  married  ! 

And  thousands  of  children,  women,  and  men, 
Counted  the  clock  from  eight  till  ten. 

From  St.  James's  sonorous  steeple ; 
For,  next  to  that  interesting  job, 
The  hanging  of  Jack,  or  Bill,  or  Bob, 
There  's  nothing  so  draws  a  London  mob 

As  the  noosing  of  very  rich  people. 


MISS  KILMANSEGa  AND   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        281 

And  a  treat  it  was  for  a  mob  to  behold 
The  bridal  carriage  that  blazed  with  gold  ! 
And  the  footmen  tall,  and  the  coachman  bold, 

In  liveries  so  resplendent  — 
Coats  you  wondered  to  see  in  place, 
They  seemed  so  rich  with  golden  lace. 

That  they  might  have  been  independent. 

Coats  that  made  those  menials  proud 
Gaze  with  scorn  on  the  dingy  croAvd, 

From  their  gilded  elevations  ; 
Not  to  forget  that  saucy  lad 
(Ostentation's  favorite  cad). 
The  page,  who  looked,  so  splendidly  clad, 

Like  a  page  of  the  "  Wealth  of  Nations." 

But  the  coachman  carried  oflf.the  state, 
With  what  was  a  Lancashire  body  of  late 

Turned  into  a  Dresden  Figure  ; 
With  a  bridal  nosegay  of  early  bloom. 
About  the  size  of  a  birchen  broom, 
And  so  huge  a  white  favor,  had  Gog  been  groom, 

He  need  not  have  worn  a  bigger. 

And  then  to  see  the  groom  !  the  count ! 
With  foreign  orders  to  such  an  amount, 

And  whiskers  so  wild  —  nay,  bestial ; 
He  seemed  to  have  borrowed  the  shaggy  hair 
As  well  as  the  stars  of  the  Polar  Bear, 

To  make  him  look  celestial ! 

And  then  —  Great  Jove  !  —  the  struggle,  the  crush^ 
The  screams,  the  heaving,  the  awful  rush. 

The  swearing,  the  tearing,  and  fighting, — 
The  hats  and  bonnets  smashed  like  an  egg, — 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Golden  Leg, 
24* 


282        MISS   KILMAXSEGG   AND    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG. 

"Which,  between  the  steps  and  Miss  Kilmansegg, 
Was  fully  displayed  in  alighting  ! 

From  the  golden  ankle  up  to  the  knee 
There  it  was  for  the  mob  to  see  ! 
A  shocking  act  had  it  chanced  to  be 

A  crooked  leg  or  a  skinny  : 
But  although  a  magnificent  veil  she  wore. 
Such  as  never  was  seen  before, 
In  case  of  blushes,  she  blushed  no  more 

Than  George  the  First  on  a  guinea  ! 

Another  step,  and,  lo  !  she  warS  launched  ! 
All  in  white,  as  brides  are  blanched, 

With  a  wreath  of  most  wonderful  splendor  — 
Diamonds,  and  pearls,  so  rich  in  device, 
That,  according*  to  calculation  nice, 
Her  head  was  worth  as  royal  a  price 

As  the  head  of  the  Young  Pretender. 

Bravely  she  shone  —  and  shone  the  more 

As  she  sailed  through  the  crowd  of  squalid  and  poor 

Thief,  beggar,  and  tatterdemalion  — 
Led  by  the  count,  with  his  sloe-black  eyes 
Bright  with  triumph,  and  some  surprise, 
Like  Anson  on  making  sure  of  his  prize 

The  famous  Mexican  galleon  ! 

Anon  came  Lady  K.,  with  her  face 
Quite  made  up  to  act  with  grace, 

But  she  cut  the  performance  shorter 
For  instead  of  pacing  stately  and  stiff, 
At  the  stare  of  the  vulgar  she  took  a  miff, 
And  ran,  full  speed,  into  church,  as  if 

To  get  married  before  her  daughter. 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND   UER   PRECIOUS   LEG.       283 

But  Sir  Jacob  walked  more  sloAvly,  and  bowed 
Rigbt  and  left  to  tbe  gaping  crowd, 

Wherever  a  glance  was  seizable  ; 
For  Sir  Jacob  thought  he  bowed  like  a  Guelph, 
And  therefore  bowed  to  imp  and  elf, 
And  would  gladly  have  made  a  bow  to  himself, 

Had  such  a  bow  been  feasible. 

And  last  —  and  not  the  least  of  the  sight, 
Six  "Handsome  Fortunes,"  all  in  white. 
Came  to  help  in  the  marriage  rite, — 

And  rehearse  their  own  hymeneals  ; 
And  then,  the  bright  procession  to  close, 
They  were  followed  by  just  as  many  beaux, 

Quite  fine  enough  for  ideals. 

Glittering  men,  and  splendid  dames, 

Thus  they  entered  the  porch  of  St.  James  , 

Pursued  by  a  thunder  of  laughter  ; 
For  the  beadle  was  forced  to  intervene, 
For  Jim  the  Crow,  and  his  Mayday  Queen, 
With  her  gilded  ladle,  and  Jack  i'  the  Green, 

Would  fain  have  followed  after  I 

Beadle-like  he  hushed  the  shout ; 

But  the  temple  was  full  "  inside  and  out," 

And  a  buzz  kept  buzzing  all  round  about 

Like  bees  when  the  day  is  sunny  — 
A  buzz  universal  that  interfered 
With  the  rite  that  ought  to  have  been  revered. 
As  if  the  couple  already  were  smeared 

With  Wedlock's  treacle  and  honey  ! 

Yet  Wedlock  's  a  very  awful  thing  ! 
'T  is  something  like  that  feat  in  the  ring 
Which  requires  good  nerve  to  do  it  — 


284        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

When  one  of  a  "  Grand  Equestrian  Troop" 
Makes  a  jump  at  a  gilded  hoop, 

Not  certain  at  all 

Of  what  may  befall 
After  his  getting  through  it ! 

But  the  count  he  felt  the  nervous  work 
No  more  than  any  polygamous  Turk, 

Or  bold  piratical  skipper, 
Who,  during  his  buccaneering  search, 
Would  as  soon  engage  "  a  hand  "  in  church 

As  a  hand  on  board  his  clipper  ! 

And  how  did  the  bride  perform  her  part  7 
Like  any  bride  who  is  cold  at  heart. 

Mere  snow  with  the  ice's  glitter  ; 
What  but  a  life  of  winter  for  her  ! 
Bright  but  chilly,  alive  without  stir, 
So  splendidly  comfortless, — just  like  a  fir 

When  the  frost  is  severe  and  bitter. 

Such  were  the  future  man  and  wife  ! 
Whose  bale  or  bliss  to  the  end  of  life 
A  few  short  words  were  to  settle  — 
Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  7 

I  will  — -  and  then, 
Wilt  thou  have  this  man  7 
I  will,  and  Amen  — 
And  those  two  were  one  flesh,  in  the  angels'  ken, 
Except  one  Leg  —  that  was  metal. 

Then  the  names  Avere  signed  —  and  kissed  the  kiss 
And  the  bride,  who  came  from  her  coach  a  miss, 

As  a  countess  walked  to  her  carriage  — 
Whilst  Hymen  preened  his  plumes  like  a  dove, 
And  Cupid  fluttered  his  wings  above, 


MISS   KILMANSEQG  AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        285 

lu  the  shape  of  a  fly  —  as  little  a  Love 
As  ever  looked  in  at  a  marriage  ! 

Another  crash  —  and  away  they  dashed, 
And  the  gilded  carriage  and  footmen  flashed 

From  the  eyes  of  the  gaping  people  — 
Who  turned  to  gaze  at  the  toe-and-heel 
Of  the  golden  boys  beginning  a  reel, 
To  the  merry  sound  of  a  wedding-peal 

From  St.  James's  musical  steeple. 

Those  wedding-bells  !  those  wedding-bells  ! 
How  sweetly  they  sound  in  pastoral  dells 

From  a  tower  in  an  ivy-green  jacket ! 
But  town-made  joys  how  dearly  they  cost ; 
And  after  all  are  tumbled  and  tost, 
Like  a  peal  from  a  London  steeple,  and  lost 

In  town-made  riot  and  racket. 

The  wedding-peal,  how  sweetly  it  peals 
With  grass  or  heather  beneath  our  heels, — 

For  bells  are  Music's  laughter  !  — 
But  a  London  peal,  well  mingled,  be  sure, 
With  vulgar  noises  and  voices  impure. 
What  a  harsh  and  discordant  overture 

To  the  harmony  meant  to  come  after  ! 

But  hence  with  Discord  —  perchance,  too  soon 
To  cloud  the  face  of  the  honeymoon 

With  a  dismal  occultation  !  — 
Whatever  Fate's  concerted  trick. 
The  countess  and  count,  at  the  present  nick, 
Have  a  chicken  and  not  a  crow  to  pick 

At  a  sumptuous  cold  collation. 

A  breakfast  —  no  unsubstantial  mess. 
But  one  in  the  style  of  good  Queen  Bess, 
WTio  —  hearty  as  hippocampus  — 


286       MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


Broke  her  fast  with  ale  and  beef, 
Instead  of  toast  and  the  Chinese  leaf, 
And  in  lieu  of  anchovj  —  grampus  ! 

A  breakfast  of  fowl,  and  fish,  and  flesh. 
Whatever  was  sweet,  or  salt,  or  fresh. 

With  wines  the  most  rare  and  curious  — 
Wines,  of  the  richest  flavor  and  hue ; 
With  fruits  from  the  worlds  both  Old  and  New , 
And  fruits  obtained  before  they  were  due 

At  a  discount  most  usurious. 

For  wealthy  palates  there  be,  that  scout 
What  is  in  season,  for  what  is  out^ 

And  prefer  all  precocious  savor ; 
For  instance,  early  green  peas,  of  the  sort 
That  costs  some  four  or  five  guineas  a  quart ; 

Where  the  Mint  is  the  principal  flavor. 

And  many  a  wealthy  man  was  there. 
Such  as  the  wealthy  city  could  spare, 

To  put  in  a  portly  appearance  — 
Men  whom  their  fathers  had  helped  to  gild : 
And  men  who  had  had  their  fortunes  to  build, 
And  —  much  to  their  credit  —  had  richly  filled 

Their  purses  by  pursy-verance. 

Men,  by  popular  rumor  at  least, 
Not  the  last  to  enjoy  a  feast ! 

And  truly  they  were  not  idle  ! 
Luckier  far  than  the  chestnut  tits. 
Which,  down  at  the  door,  stood  champing  their  bita 

At  a  difierent  sort  of  bridle. 

For  the  time  was  come  —  and  the  whiskered  count 
Helped  his  bride  in  the  carriage  to  mount, 
And  fain  would  the  Muse  deny  it, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   A^TD    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        287 


But  the  crowd,  including  two  butchers  in  blue, 
(The  regular  killing  Whitechapel  hue,) 
Of  her  Precious  Calf  had  as  ample  a  view, 
As  if  they  had  come  to  buy  it ! 

Then  away  !  away  !  with  all  the  speed 
That  golden  spurs  can  give  to  the  steed, — 
Both  yellow  boys  and  guineas,  indeed, 

Concurred  to  urge  the  cattle, — 
Away  they  went,  with  favors  white, 
Yellow  jackets,  and  pannels  bright, 
And  left  the  mob,  like  a  mob  at  night. 

Agape  at  the  sound  of  a  rattle. 

Away !  away  !  they  rattled  and  rolled, 

The  count,  and  his  bride,  and  her  Leg  of  Gold  - 

That  faded  charm  to  the  charmer  ! 
Away, —  through  Old  Brentford  rang  the  din, 
Of  wheels  and  heels,  on  their  way  to  win 
That  hill,  named  after  one  of  her  kin 

The  Hill  of  the  Golden  Farmer ! 

Gold,  still  gold  —  it  flew  like  dust ! 

It  tipped  the  post-boy,  and  paid  the  trust ; 

In  each  open  palm  it  was  freely  thrust ; 

There  was  nothing  but  giving  and  taking ! 
And  if  gold  could  insure  the  future  hour. 
What  hopes  attended  that  bride  to  her  bower ; 
But,  alas  !  even  hearts  with  a  four-horse  power 

Of  opulence  end  in  breaking  ! 

The  moon  —  the  moon,  so  silver  and  cold, 
Her  fickle  temper  has  oft  been  told, 

Now  shady  —  now  bright  and  sunny  — 
But,  of  all  the  lunar  things  that  change, 
The  one  that  shows  most  fickle  and  strange, 


288        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AISB   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

And  takes  the  most  eccentric  range, 
Is  the  moon  —  so  called  —  of  honey  ! 

To  some  a  full-grown  orb  revealed, 
As  big  and  as  round  as  Norval's  shield, 

And  as  brio-ht  as  a  burner  Bude-lio;hted ; 
To  others  as  dull,  and  dingj,  and  damp, 
As  any  oleaginous  lamp, 
Of  the  regular  old  parochial  stamp, 

In  a  London  fog  benighted. 

To  the  loving,  a  bright  and  constant  sphere, 
That  makes  earth's  commonest  scenes  appear 

All  poetic,  romantic,  and  tender  ; 
Hanging  with  jewels  a  cabbage-stump, 
And  investing  a  common  post,  or  a  pump, 
A  currant-bush  or  a  gooseberry  clump, 

With  a  halo  of  dreamlike  splendor. 

A  sphere  such  as  shone  from  Italian  skies, 
In  Juliet's  dear,  dark,  liquid  eyes, 

Tipping  trees  with  its  argent  braveries  — 
And  to  couples  not  favored  with  Fortune's  boons 
One  of  the  most  delightful  of  moons, 
For  it  brightens  their  pewter  platters  and  spoons 

Like  a  silver  service  of  Savory's  ! 

For  all  is  bright,  and  beauteous,  and  clear, 
And  the  meanest  thing  most  precious  and  dear, 

When  the  magic  of  love  is  present : 
Love,  that  lends  a  sweetness  and  grace 
To  the  humblest  spot  and  the  plainest  face  — 
That  turns  Wilderness  Row  into  Paradise  Place, 

And  Garlic  Hill  to  Mount  Pleasant ! 

Love  that  sweetens  sugarless  tea, 
And  makes  contentment  and  joy  agree 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER  PRECIOUS  LEG.        289 

With  the  coarsest  boarding  and  bedding ; 
Love,  that  no  golden  ties  can  attach, 
But  nestles  under  the  humblest  thatch, 
And  will  flj  away  from  an  emperor's  match 

To  dance  at  a  penny  wedding  ! 

0,  happy,  happy,  thrice  happy  state, 
When  such  a  bright  planet  governs  the  fate 

Of  a  pair  of  united  lovers  ! 
'T  is  theirs,  in  spite  of  the  serpent's  hiss, 
To  enjoy  the  pure  primeval  kiss 
With  as  much  of  the  old  original  bliss 

As  mortality  ever  recovers  ! 

There 's  strength  in  double  joints,  no  doubt, 

In  double  X  Ale,  and  Dublin  Stout, 

That  the  single  sorts  know  nothing  about  — 

And  a  fist  is  strongest  when  doubled  — 
And  double  aqua-fortis,  of  course. 
And  double  soda-water,  perforce. 

Are  the  strongest  that  ever  bubbled  ! 

There  's  double  beauty  whenever  a  swan 
Swims  on  a  lake,  with  her  double  thereon  ; 
And  ask  the  gardener,  Luke  or  John, 

Of  the  beauty  of  double-blowing  — 
A  double  dahlia  delights  the  eye ; 
And  it 's  far  the  loveliest  sight  in  the  sky 

When  a  double  rainbow  is  glowing  ! 

There 's  warmth  in  a  pair  of  double  soles ; 
As  well  as  a  double  allowance  of  coals  — 

In  a  coat  that  is  double-breasted  — 
In  double  windows  and  double  doors  ; 
And  a  double  U  wind  is  blest  by  scores 

For  its  warmth  to  the  tender-chested. 
25 


290        MISS  KILMANSEGG    AND   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 


There 's  two-fold  sweetness  in  double-pipes ; 
And  a  double  barrel  and  double  snipes 

Give  the  sportsman  a  duplicate  pleasure  : 
There 's  double  safety  in  double  locks  ; 
And  double  letters  bring  cash  for  the  box ; 
And  all  the  world  knows  that  double  knocks 

Are  gentility's  double  measure. 

There 's  a  double  sweetness  in  double  rhymes, 
And  a  double  at  whist  and  a  double  Times 

In  profit  are  certainly  double  — 
By  doubling,  the  hare  contrives  to  escape  : 
And  all  seamen  delight  in  a  doubled  cape, 

And  a  double-reefed  topsail  in  trouble. 

There 's  a  double  chuck  at  a  double  chin, 

And  of  course  there  's  a  double  pleasure  therein, 

If  the  parties  are  brought  to  telling  : 
And,  however  our  Dennises  take  offence, 
A  double  meaning  shows  double  sense  ; 
And  if  proverbs  tell  truth, 
A  double  tooth 
Is  Wisdom's  adopted  dwelling  ! 

But  double  wisdom,  and  pleasure,  and  sense. 
Beauty,  respect,  strength,  comfort,  and  thence 

Through  whatever  the  list  discovers, 
They  are  all  in  the  double  blessedness  summed 
Of  what  was  formerly  double-drummed, 

The  man-iasje  of  two  true  lovers  ! 

Now  the  Kilmansegg  Moon  —  it  must  be  told  — 
Though  instead  of  silver  it  tipped  with  gold  — 
Shone  rather  wan,  and  distant,  and  cold, 

And,  before  its  days  were  at  thirty, 
Such  gloomy  clouds  began  to  collect, 


MISS  KILMANSEGG    AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        291 

With  an  ominous  ring  of  ill  effect, 
As  gave  but  too  much  cause  to  expect 
Such  weather  as  seamen  call  dirty  ! 
And  yet  the  moon  was  the  "  young  May  moon," 
And  the  scented  hawthorn  had  blossomed  soon,^ 

And  the  thrush  and  the  blackbird  were  singing  — 
The  snow-white  lambs  were  skipping  in  play, 
And  the  bee  was  humming  a  tune  all  day 
To  flowers  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May, 

And  the  trout  in  the  stream  was  sprmgmg  ! 
But  what  were  the  hues  of  the  blooming  earth, 
Its  scents  —  its  sounds  —  or  the  music  and  mirth, 

Or  its  furred  or  its  feathered  creatures, 
To  a  pair  in  the  world" s  last  sordid  stage. 
Who  had  never  looked  into  Nature's  page. 
And  had  strange  ideas  of  a  Golden  Age, 
Without  any  Arcadian  features  ? 

And  what  were  joys  of  the  pastoral  kind 

To  a  bride  — town-made  — with  a  heart  and  mmd 

With  simplicity  ever  at  battle  1 
A  bride  of  an  ostentatious  race, 
Who.  thrown  in  the  Golden  Farmer's  place, 
Would  have  trimmed  her  shepherds  with  golden  lace, 

And  gilt  the  horns  of  her  cattle. 
She  could  not  please  the  pigs  with  her  whim,  _ 
And  the  sheep  would  n"t  cast  their  eyes  at  a  limb 

For  which  she  had  l^een  such  a  martyr  : 
The  deer  in  the  park,  and  the  colts  at  grass, 
And  the  cows,  unheeded  let  it  pass  ; 
And  the  ass  on  the  common  was  such  an  ass, 
That  he  wouldn't  have  swapped 
The  thistle  he  cropped 
For  her  Leg,  including  the  Garter  ! 


292        MISS    KILMANSEGG    AXD    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG. 

She  hated  lanes,  and  she  hated  fields  — 
She  hated  all  that  the  country  yields  — 

And  barely  knew  turnips  from  clover  : 
She  hated  walking  in  any  shape, 
And  a  country  stile  was  an  awkward  scrape, 
Without  the  bribe  of  a  mob  to  gape 

At  the  Leg  in  clambering  over ! 

0  blessed  Nature,  "  0  rus  !   0  ras  !  " 
Who  cannot  sigh  for  the  country  thus, 

Absorbed  in  a  worldly  torpor  — 
Who  does  not  yearn  for  its  meadow-sweet  breath 
Untainted  by  care,  and  crime,  and  death, 
And  to  stand  sometimes  upon  grass  or  heath  — 

That  soul,  spite  of  gold,  is  a  pauper ! 

But  to  hail  the  pearly  advent  of  Morn, 
And  relish  the  odor  fresh  from  the  thorn, 

She  was  far  too  pampered  a  madam  — 
Or  to  joy  in  the  daylight  waxing  strong, 
While,  after  ages  of  sorrow  and  wrong. 
The  scorn  of  the  proud,  the  misrule  of  the  strong, 
And  all  the  woes  that  to  man  belonof. 
The  lark  still  carols  the  self-same  sonc 

That  he  did  to  the  uncurst  Adam  ! 

The  Lark  !  she  had  given  all  Leipsic's  flocks 
For  a  Yauxhall  tune  in  a  musical  box ; 

And  as  for  the  birds  in  the  thicket. 
Thrush  or  ousel  in  leafy  niche. 
The  linnet  or  finch,  she  was  far  too  rich 
To  care  for  a  morning  concert  to  which 

She  was  welcome  without  any  ticket. 

Gold,  still  gold,  her  standard  of  old, 
All  pastoral  joys  were  tried  by  gold, 
Or  by  fancies  golden  and  crural  — 


MISS    KILMANSEGG    AND    HER    PRECIOUS   LEG. 


293 


Till  ere  she  had  passed  one  week  unblest, 
As  her  agricultiu-al  uncle's  guest, 
Her  mind  mus  made  up  and  fully  imprest 
That  felicity  could  not  be  rural  ! 

And  the  count  ?  —  to  the  snow-white  lambs  at  play. 
And  all  the  scents  and  the  sights  of  May, 

And  the  birds  that  warbled  their  passion, 
His  ears,  and  dark  eyes,  and  decided  nose. 
Were  as  deaf  and  as  blind  and  as  duU  as  those 
That  overlook  the  Bouquet  de  Rose, 
The  Huile  Antique, 
And  Parfum  Unique, 
In  a  barber's  Temple  of  Fashion. 

To  tell,  indeed,  the  true  extent 
Of  his  rural  bias,  so  far  it  went 

As  to  covet  estates  in  ring  fences  — 
And  for  rural  lore  he  had  learned  in  town 
That  the  country  was  green  turned  up  with  brown, 
And  garnished  with  trees  that  a  man  might  cut  down 

Instead  of  his  own  expenses. 

And  yet,  had  that  fault  been  his  only  one, 
The  pair  might  have  had  few  quarrels  or  none, 

For  their  tastes  thus  far  were  in  common ; 
But  faults  he  had  that  a  haughty  bride 
With  a  Golden  Leg  could  hardly  abide  — 
Faults  that  would  even  have  roused  the  pride 

Of  a  far  less  metalsome  woman  ! 

It  was  early  (lays  indeed  for  a  wife, 
In  the  very  spring  of  her  married  life, 

To  be  chilled  by  its  wintry  weather  — 
But,  instead  of  sitting  as  love-birds  do, 
Or  Hymen's  turtles  that  bill  and  coo  — 
25* 


29-1         MISS    KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS    LEG. 

Enjoying  their  "  moon  and  honey  for  two," 
They  were  scarcely  seen  together  ! 

In  vain  she  sat  with  her  Precious  Leg 
A  little  exposed  a  la  Kilmansegg, 

And  rolled  her  eyes  in  their  sockets  ! 
He  left  her  in  spite  of  her  tend^  regards, 
And  those  loving  murmurs  described  by  bards, 
For  the  rattling  of  dice  and  the  shuffling  of  cards, 

And  the  poking  of  balls  into  pockets  ! 

Moreover  he  loved  the  deepest  stake 

And  the  heaviest  bets  the  players  would  make  ; 

And  he  drank  —  the  reverse  of  sparely, — 
And  he  used  strange  curses  that  made  her  fret ; 
And  when  he  played  with  herself  at  piquet, 
She  found,  to  her  cost, 
For  she  always  lost, 
That  the  count  did  not  count  quite  fairly. 

And  then  came  dark  mistrust  and  doubt, 
Gathered  by  worming  his  secrets  out. 

And  slips  in  his  conversations  — 
Fears,  which  all  her  peace  destroyed, 
That  his  title  was  null  —  his  coffers  were  void  — 
And  his  French  chateau  was  in  Spain,  or  enjoyed 

The  most  airy  of  situations. 

But  still  his  heart  —  if  he  had  such  a  part  — 
She  —  only  she  —  might  possess  his  heart. 

And  hold  his  affections  in  fetters  — 
Alas  !  that  hope,  like  a  crazy  ship, 
Was  forced  its  anchor  and  cable  to  slip 
When,  seduced  by  her  fears,  she  took  a  dip 

In  his  private  papers  and  letters. 


29^ 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

Letters  that  told  of  dangerous  leagues ; 
And  notes  that  hinted  as  many  intrigues 

As  the  count's  in  the  "  Barljer  of  Seville  "  - 
In  short,  such  mysteries  came  to  light, 
That  the  countess-bride,  on  the  thirtieth  night, 
Woke  and  started  up  in  affright, 
And  kicked  and  screamed  with  all  her  might, 
And  finally  fainted  away  outright. 

For  she  dreamt  she  had  married  the  Devil ! 


Who  hath  not  met  with  home-made  bread, 
A  heavy  compound  of  putty  and  lead  — 
And  home-made  wines  that  rack  the  head, 

And  home-made  liqueurs  and  waters  1 
Home-made  pop  that  will  not  foam. 
And  home-made  dishes  that  drive  one  fi-om  home, 
Not  to  name  each  mess, 
For  the  face  or  dress. 
Home-made  by  the  homely  daughters  1 

Home-made  physic,  that  sickens  the  sick  ; 
Thick  for  thin  and  thin  for  thick ;  — 
In  short,  each  homogeneous  trick 

For  poisoning  domesticity  ? 
And  since  our  Parents,  called  the  First, 
A  little  family  squabble  nurst, 
Of  all  our  evils  the  worst  of  the  worst 

Is  home-made  infelicity. 
There  's  a  golden  bird  that  claps  its  wings, 
And  dances  for  joy  on  its  perch,  and  singa 

With  a  Persian  exultation : 
For  the  sun  is  shining  into  the  room, 
And  brightens  up  the  carpet-bloom, 


296        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

As  if  it  were  new,  bran-new  from  the  loom, 
Or  the  lone  nun's  fabrication. 

And  thence  the  glorious  radiance  flames 
On  pictures  in  massy  gilded  frames  — 
Enshrining,  however,  no  painted  dames, 

But  portraits  of  colts  and  fillies  — 
Pictures  hanging  on  walls  which  shine, 
In  spite  of  the  bard's  familiar  line, 

With  clusters  of  "gilded  lilies." 

And  still  the  flooding  sunlight  shares 
Its  lustre  with  gilded  sofas  and  chairs. 

That  shine  as  if  freshly  burnished  — 
And  gilded  tables,  with  glittering  stocks 
Of  gilded  china,  and  golden  clocks. 
Toy,  and  trinket,  and  musical  box. 

That  Peace  and  Paris  have  furnished. 

And,  lo  !  with  the  brightest  gleam  of  all 
The  glowing  sunbeam  is  seen  to  fall 

On  an  object  as  rare  as  splendid  — 
The  golden  foot  of  the  Golden  Leg 
Of  the  countess —  once  Miss  Kilmansegg  — 

But  there  all  sunshine  is  ended. 

Her  cheek  is  pale,  and  her  eye  is  dim, 
And  downward  cast,  yet  not  at  the  limb. 

Once  the  centre  of  all  speculation  ; 
But  downward  drooping  in  comfort's  dearth, 
As  gloomy  thoughts  are  drawn  to  the  earth  — 
Whence  human  sorrows  derive  their  birth  — 

By  a  moral  gravitation. 

Her  golden  hair  is  out  of  its  braids, 
And  her  sighs  betray  the  gloomy  shades 
That  her  evil  planet  revolves  in  — 


MISS   KILMAXSEGG   AND    HER   TRECIOUS   LEG.        297 

And  tears  are  falling  that  catch  a  gleam 
So  bright  as  thej  drop  in  the  sunny  beam, 
That  tears  of  aqua  regia  thej  seem 
The  -water  that  gold  dissolves  in  ! 

Yet.  not  in  filial  grief  were  shed 

Those  tears  for  a  mother's  insanity ; 
Nor  yet  because  her  father  was  dead, 
For  the  bowing  Sir  Jacob  had  bowed  his  head 

To  Death  —  with  his  usual  urbanity ; 
The  waters  that  down  her  visage  rilled 
Were  drops  of  unrectified  spirit  distilled 

From  the  limbec  of  Pride  and  Vanity. 

Tears  that  fell  alone  and  uncheckt, 

Without  relief,  and  without  respect. 

Like  the  fabled  pearls  that  the  jjigs  neglect, 

When  pigs  have  that  opportunity  — 
And  of  all  the  griefs  that  mortals  share, 
The  one  that  seems  the  hardest  to  bear 

Is  the  grief  without  community. 

How  blessed  the  heart  that  has  a  friend 
A  sj'mpathizing  ear  to  lend 

To  troubles  too  great  to  smother  ! 
For  as  ale  and  porter,  when  flat,  are  restored 
Till  a  sparkling,  bubbling  head  they  afford, 
So  sorrow  is  cheered  by  being  poured 

From  one  vessel  into  another. 

But  friend  or  gossip  she  had  not  one 

To  hear  the  vile  deeds  that  the  count  had  done, 

How  night  after  night  he  rambled  ; 
And  how  she  had  learned  by  sad  degrees 
That  he  drank,  and  smoked,  and,  worse  than  these, 

That  he  "swindled,  intrigued,  and  gambled." 


298       MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER    PRECIOUS    LEG. 


How  lie  kissed  the  maids,  and  sparred  with  John ; 
And  came  to  bed  with  his  garments  on ; 

With  other  offences  as  heinous  — 
And  brought  strange  gentlemen  home  to  dine, 
That  he  said  were  in  the  Fancy  line, 
And  thej  fancied  spnits  instead  of  wine. 

And  called  her  lap-dog  "  Wenus  !  " 

Of  '■'  making  a  book '"'  how  he  made  a  stir, 
But  never  had  written  a  line  to  her, 

Once  his  idol  and  Cara  Sposa : 
And  how  he  had  stormed,  and  treated  her  ill, 
Because  she  refused  to  go  down  to  a  mill, 
She  didn't  know  where,  but  remembered  still 

That  the  miller's  name  was  Mendoza. 

How  often  he  waked  her  up  at  night. 
And  oftener  still  by  the  morning  light. 

Reeling  home  from  his  haunts  unlawful ; 
Singing  songs  that  shouldn't  be  sung, 
Except  by  beggars  and  thieves  unhung  — 
Or  volleying  oaths,  that  a  foreign  tongue 

Made  still  more  horrid  and  awful ! 

How  oft,  instead  of  otto  of  rose, 

With  vTilgar  smells  he  offended  her  nose, 

From  gin,  tobacco,  and  onion  ! 
And  then  how  wildly  he  used  to  stare  ! 
And  shake  his  fist  at  nothing,  and  swear, — 
And  pluck  by  the  handful  his  shaggy  hair, 
Till  he  looked  like  a  study  of  Giant  Despair 

For  a  new  edition  of  Bunyan  ! 

For  dice  will  run  the  contrary  way, 
As  well  is  known  to  all  who  play. 

And  cards  will  conspire  as  in  treason : 
And  what  with  keeping  a  hunting-box, 


_MISS   KILMANSEGG  AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        29D 

Following  fox — 
Friends  in  flocks. 
Burgundies,  Hocks, 
From  London  Docks ; 
Stultz's  frocks, 
Manton  and  Nock's 
Barrels  and  locks, 
Shooting  blue  rocks. 
Trainers  and  jocks, 
Buskins  and  socks, 
Pugilistical  knocks, 
And  fighting-cocks, 
If  he  found  himself  short  in  funds  and  stocks, 
These  rhymes  will  furnish  the  reason  ! 

BQs  friends,  indeed,  were  falling  away  — 
Friends  who  insist  on  play  or  pay  — 
And  he  feared  at  no  very  distant  day 

To  be  cut  by  Lord  and  by  Cadger, 
As  one  who  was  gone  or  going  to  smash. 
For  his  checks  no  longer  drew  the  cash. 
Because,  as  his  comrades  explained  in  flash, 

"  He  had  overdrawn  his  badger." 

Gold  !  gold  —  alas  !  for  the  gold 
Spent  where  souls  are  bought  and  sold, 

In  Vice's  Walpurgis  revel  ! 
Alas  !  for  mufiles,  and  bulldogs,  and  guns, 
The  leg  that  walks,  and  the  leg  that  runs, 
All  real  evils,  though  Fancy  ones, 
"When  they  lead  to  debt,  dishonor,  and  duns, 

Nay,  to  death,  and  perchance  the  Devil ! 

Alas  !  for  the  last  of  a  Golden  race  ! 
Had  she  cried  her  wrongs  in  the  market-place, 
She  had  warrant  for  all  her  clamor  — 


300       MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 


For  the  worst  of  rogues,  and  brutes,  and  rakes, 
Was  breaking  her  heart  by  constant  aches. 
With  as  little  remorse  as  the  pauper  Tvho  breaks 
A  flint  with  a  parish  hammer  ! 

3Scr  aast  55?ill. 

Now  the  Precious  Leg,  while  cash  was  flush, 
Or  the  count's  acceptance  worth  a  rush, 

Had  never  excited  dissension  : 
But  no  sooner  the  stocks  began  to  fall, 
Than,  without  any  ossification  at  all, 
The  limb  became  what  people  call 

A  perfect  bone  of  contention. 

For  altered  days  brought  altered  ways, 
And  instead  of  the  complimentary  phrase, 

So  current  before  her  bridal  — 
The  countess  heard,  in  language  low. 
That  her  Precious  Leg  was  precious  slow, 
A  good  'un  to  look  at  but  bad  to  go, 

And  kept  quite  a  sum  lying  idle. 

That  instead  of  playing  musical  airs, 

Like  Colin' s  foot  in  going  up-stairs  — 

As  the  wife  in  the  Scottish  ballad  declares  — 

It  made  an  infernal  stumping. 
Whereas  a  member  of  cork,  or  wood. 
Would  be  lighter  and  cheaper,  and  quite  as  good, 

Without  the  unbearable  thumping. 

Perhaps  she  thought  it  a  decent  thing 
To  show  her  calf  to  cobbler  and  kinsr. 

But  nothing  could  be  absurder  — 
While  none  but  the  crazy  would  advertise 
Their  gold  before  theu'  servants'  eyes, 


MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG.        301 

Who  of  course  some  night  -would  make  it  a  prize, 
By  a  shocking  and  barbarous  murder. 

But  spite  of  hint,  and  threat,  and  scoff. 

The  Leg  kept  its  situation  : 
For  legs  are  not  to  be  taken  off 

By  a  verbal  amputation. 
And  mortals  -when  they  take  a  whim, 
The  greater  the  folly  the  stiffer  the  limb 

That  stands  upon  it  or  by  it  — 
So  the  countess,  then  ]NIis3  Kilmansegg, 
At  her  marriage  refused  to  stir  a  peg. 
Till  the  lawyers  had  fastened  on  her  leg, 

As  fast  as  the  law  could  tie  it. 

Firmly  then — and  more  firmly  yet — 

With  scorn  for  scorn,  and  with  threat  for  threat. 

The  proud  one  confronted  the  cruel : 
And  loud  and  bitter  the  quarrel  arose, 
^  Fierce  and  merciless  —  one  of  those, 
With  spoken  daggers,  and  looks  like  blows, 
In  all  but  the  bloodshed  a  duel ! 

Rash;  and  wild,  and  wretched,  and  wrong. 
Were  the  words  that  came  from  weak  and  strong, 

Till,  maddened  for  desperate  matters, 
Fierce  as  tigress  escaped  fi'om  her  den, 
She  flew  to  her  desk — 't  was  opened — and  then, 
In  the  time  it  takes  to  try  a  pen, 
Or  the  clerk  to  utter  his  slow  Amen, 

Her  Will  was  in  fifty  tatters ! 

But  the  count,  instead  of  curses  wild. 
Only  nodded  his  head  and  smiled. 
As  if  at  the  spleen  of  an  angry  child  ; 
26 


302        MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND   HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 

But  the  calm  was  deceitful  and  sinister  ! 
A  lull  like  the  lull  of  the  treacherous  sea  — 
For  Hate  in  that  moment  had  sworn  to  be 
The  Golden  Leg's  sole  Legatee, 

And  that  very  night  to  administer  ! 

'Met  IBcatJ. 

'T  is  a  stern  and  startling  thing  to  think 
How  often  mortality  stands  on  the  brink 

Of  its  grave  without  any  misgiving  : 
And  yet,  in  this  slippery  world  of  strife, 
In  the  stir  of  human  bustle  so  rife 
There  are  daily  sounds  to  tell  us  that  Life 

Is  dying,  and  Death  is  living  ! 

Ay,  Beauty  the  girl,  and  Love  the  boy, 
Bright  as  they  are  with  hope  and  joy, 

How  their  souls  would  sadden  instanter, 
To  remember  that  one  of  those  wedding  bells, 
Which  ring  so  merrily  through  the  dells, 
Is  the  same  that  knells 
Our  last  farewells. 
Only  broken  into  a  canter  ! 

But  breath  and  blood  set  doom  at  naught  — 
How  little  the  wretched  countess  thought, 
When  at  night  she  unloosed  her  sandal, 
That  the  Fates  had  woven  her  burial-cloth, 
And  that  Death,  in  the  shape  of  a  death's-head  moth, 
Was  fluttering  round  her  candle  ! 

As  she  looked  at  her  clock  of  or-molu, 

For  the  hours  she  had  gone  so  wearily  through 

At  the  end  of  a  day  of  trial  — 
How  little  she  saw  in  her  pride  of  prime 


MISS  KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS  LEG. 


303 


The  dart  of  death  in  the  hand  of  Time — 
That  hand  which  moved  on  the  dial ! 

As  she  went  with  her  taper  up  the  stair, 
How  little  her  swollen  eje  was  aware 

That  the  Shadow  which  followed  was  double  ! 
Or  when  she  closed  her  chamber  door, 
It  was  shutting  out.  and  forevermore, 

The  world — and  its  worldly  trouble. 

Little  she  dreamt,  as  she  laid  aside 

Her  jewels  —  after  one  glance  of  pride  — 

The  J  were  solemn  bequests  to  Vanity  — 
Or  when  her  robes  she  began  to  doff, 
That  she  stood  so  near  to  the  putting  off 

Of  tlie  flesh  that  clothes  humanity. 

And  when  she  quenched  the  taper's  light, 
How  little  she  thought,  as  the  smoke  took  flight. 
That  her  day  was  done — and  merged  in  a  night 
Of  dreams  and  duration  uncertain — 
Or,  along  with  her  own, 
That  a  hand  of  bone 
Was  closing  mortality's  curtain  ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  and  mortality  blind, 
And  youth  is  hopeful,  and  Fate  is  kind 

In  concealing  the  day  of  sorrow ; 
And  enough  is  the  present  tense  of  toil — 
For  this  world  is,  to  all.  a  stiffish  soil  — 
And  the  mind  flies  back  with  a  glad  recoil 

From  the  debts  not  due  till  to-morrow. 

Wherefore  else  does  the  spirit  fly 
And  bid  its  daily  cares  good-by, 
Along  with  its  daily  clothing  1 
Just  as  the  felon  condemned  to  die  — 


304        MISS   KILMANSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG. 

With  a  very  natural  loathing  — 

Leaving  the  sheriff  to  dream  of  ropes, 
From  his  gloomy  cell  in  a  vision  elopes, 
To  caper  on  sunny  greens  and  slopes, 
Instead  of  the  dance  upon  nothing. 

Thus,  even  thus,  the  countess  slept, 
While  Death  still  nearer  and  nearer  crept, 

Like  the  Thane  "who  smote  the  sleeping — 
But  her  mind  was  busy  with  early  joys. 
Her  golden  treasures  and  golden  toys, 
That  flashed  a  bright 
And  golden  light 
Under  lids  still  red  with  weeping. 

The  golden  doll  that  she  used  to  hug  ! 
Her  coral  of  gold,  and  the  golden  mug  ! 

Her  godfather's  golden  presents  ! 
The  golden  service  she  had  at  her  meals, 
The  golden  watch,  and  chain,  and  seals, 
Her  golden  scissors,  and  thi-ead,  and  reels. 

And  her  golden  fishes  and  pheasants  ! 

The  golden  guineas  in  silken  purse  — 

And  the  golden  legends  she  heard  from  her  nurse, 

Of  the  ^layor  in  his  gilded  carriage  — 
And  London  streets  that  were  paved  with  gold  — 
And  the  golden  eggs  that  were  laid  of  old  — 
With  each  golden  thing 
To  the  golden  ring 
At  her  own  auriferous  marriage  ! 

And  still  the  golden  light  of  the  sun 
Through  her  golden  dream  appeared  to  run. 
Though  the  night  that  roared  without  was  one 
To  terrify  seamen  or  gypsies  — 


MISS   KILMAXSEGG   AND    HER   PRECIOUS   LEG.        305 

While  the  moon,  as  if  in  malicious  mirth, 
Kept  peeping  down  at  the  ruffled  earth, 
As  though  she  enjoyed  the  tempest's  birth, 
In  revenge  of  her  old  eclipses. 

But  vainly,  vainly  the  thunder  fell. 

For  the  soul  of  the  sleeper  vras  under  a  spell 

That  time  had  lately  embittered  — 
The  count,  as  once  at  her  foot  he  knelt  — 
That  foot  which  now  he  wanted  to  melt ! 
But  —  hush!  - — 't  was  a  stir  at  her  pillow  she  felt— 

And  some  object  before  her  glittered. 

'T  was  the  Golden  Leg  !  —  she  knew  its  gleam  ! 
And  up  she  started,  and  tried  to  scream, — 

But  even  in  the  moment  she  started  — - 
Down  came  the  limb  with  a  frightful  smash, 
And.  lost  in  the  universal  flash 
That  her  eyeballs  made  at  so  mortal  a  crash, 

The  spark,  called  Vital,  departed  ! 


Gold,  still  gold !  hard,  yellow,  and  cold, 
For  gold  she  had  lived,  and  she  died  for  gold 

By  a  golden  weapon  —  not  oaken  ; 
In  the  morning  they  foiind  her  all  alone  — 
Stiff,  and  bloody,  and  cold  as  stone  — 
But  her  Leg.  the  Golden  Leg.  was  gone, 

And  the  "  golden  bowl  was  broken  !  " 

Gold  —  still  gold  !  it  haunted  her  yet — 
At  the  Golden  Lion  the  inquest  met  — 

Its  foreman,  a  carver  and  gilder  — 
And  the  jury  debated  from  twelve  till  three 
What  the  verdict  ought  to  be. 
26* 


306  A   MORNING    THOUGHT. 

And  they  brought  it  in  as  Felo-de-Se, 
"  Because  her  own  leg  had  killed  her  ! " 

mer:  iWoral. 
Gold!  gold!  gold!  gold! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammered  and  rolled ; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold  ; 
Hoarded,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrowed,  squandered,  doled  : 
Spurned  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  church-yard  mould ; 
Price  of  many  a  crime  untold  : 
Gold!  gold!  gold!  gold! 
Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary  — 
To  save  —  to  ruin  —  to  curse  —  to  bless  — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamped  with  the  image  of  good  Queen  Bess, 

And  now  of  a  Bloody  Mary. 


A    MORNING    THOUGHT. 

No  more,  no  more  will  I  resign 
My  couch  so  warm  and  soft. 

To  trouble  trout  with  hook  and  line, 
That  will  not  spring  aloft. 

With  larks  appointments  one  may  fix 
To  greet  the  dawning  skies, 

But  hang  the  getting  up  at  six 
For  fish  that  will  not  r/se .' 


A   TALE   OF  A   TRUMPET. 

"  Old  woman,  old  woman,  will  you  go  a-shearing  1 
Speak  a  little  louder,  for  I  'm  very  hard  of  hearing." 

Old  Ballad 

Of  all  old  women  hard  of  heariiK^, 

The  deafest,  sure,  was  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing  ! 

On  her  head,  it  is  true. 

Two  flaps  there  grew, 
That  served  for  a  pair  of  gold  rings  to  go  through ; 
But  for  any  purpose  of  ears  in  a  parley, 
They  heard  no  more  than  ears  of  barley. 

No  hint  was  needed  from  D.  E.  F. 

You  saw  in  her  face  that  the  woman  was  deaf : 

From  her  twisted  mouth  to  her  eyes  so  peery, 

Each  queer  feature  asked  a  query  : 

A  look  that  said,  in  a  silent  way, 

"  "Who  7  and  What  7  and  How  7  and  Eh  7 

I  'd  give  my  ears  to  know  what  you  say  !  " 

And  well  she  might !  for  each  auricular 

Was  deaf  as  a  post  —  and  that  post  in  particular 

That  stands  at  the  corner  of  Dyott-street  now. 

And  never  hears  a  word  of  a  row  ! 

Ears  that  might  serve  her  now  and  then 
As  extempore  racks  for  an  idle  pen  ; 
Or  to  hang  with  hoops  from  jewellers'  shops 
With  coral,  ruby,  or  garnet  drops  ; 


308  A   TALE    OF   A   TRUMPET. 

Or,  provided  the  owner  so  inclined, 

Ears  to  stick  a  blister  behind  ; 

But  as  for  hearing  wisdom  or  wit, 

Falsehood,  or  folly,  or  tell-tale-tit, 

Or  politics,  whether  of  Fox  or  Pitt, 

Sermon,  lecture,  or  musical  bit. 

Harp,  piano,  fiddle,  or  kit. 

They  might  as  well,  for  any  such  wish, 

Have  been  buttered,  done  brown,  and  laid  in  a  dish  ! 

She  was  deaf  as  a  post, —  as  said  before, — 

And  as  deaf  as  twenty  similes  more. 

Including  the  adder,  that  deafest  of  snakes. 

Which  never  hears  the  coil  it  makes. 

She  was  deaf  as  a  house  —  which  modern  tricks   ^ 
Of  language  would  call  as  deaf  as  bricks  — 
For  her  all  human  kind  were  dumb, 
Her  drum,  indeed,  was  so  muffled  a  drum, 
That  none  could  get  a  sound  to  come, 
Unless  the  Devil  who  had  Two  Sticks  ! 
She  was  deaf  as  a  stone  —  say  one  of  the  stones 
Demosthenes  sucked  to  improve  his  tones  ; 
And  surely  deafness  no  further  could  reach 
Than  to  be  in  his  mouth  without  hearing  his  speech  ! 
She  was  deaf  as  a  nut  —  for  nuts,  no  doubt. 
Are  deaf  to  the  grub  that 's  hollowing  out  — 
As  deaf,  alas  !  as  the  dead  and  forgotten  — 
(Gray  has  noticed  the  waste  of  breath, 
In  addressing  the  "  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  "), 
Or  the  Felon's  ear  that  was  stuffed  with  Cotton  — 
Or  Cbarles  the  First,  in  statue  quo  ; 
Or  the  ^till-born  figures  of  Madame  Tussaud, 
With  their  eyes  of  glass,  and  their  hair  of  flax. 
That  only  stare,  whatever  you  "ax," 
For  their  ears,  you  know,  are  nothing  but  wax. 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET  SO^ 

She  was  deaf  as  the  ducks  that  swam  in  the  pond, 

And  would  n"t  listen  to  Mrs.  Bond, — 

As  deaf  as  any  Frenchman  appears, 

WTien  he  puts  his  shoulders  into  his  ears : 

And  —  whatever  the  citizen  tells  his  son  — 

As  deaf  as  Gog  and  Magog  at  one  ! 

Or,  still  to  be  a  simile-seeker, 

As  deaf  as  dog's-ears  to  Enfield's. Speaker  ! 

She  was  deaf  as  any  tradesman's  dummy, 
Or  as  Pharaoh's  mother's  mother's  mummy; 
Whose  organs,  for  fear  of  our  modern  sceptics. 
Were  plugged  with  gums  and  antiseptics. 

She  was  deaf  as  a  nail  —  that  you  cannot  hammer 
A  meaning  into,  for  all  your  clamor  — 
There  never  u-as  such  a  deaf  old  Gammer  ! 

So  formed  to  worry 

Both  Lindley  and  Murray, 
By  having  no  ear  for  music  or  grammar  ! 

Deaf  to  sounds,  as  a  ship  out  of  soundings. 
Deaf  to  verbs,  and  all  their  compoundings, 
Adjective,  noun,  and  adverb,  and  particle. 
Deaf  to  even  the  definite  article  — 
No  verbal  message  was  worth  a  pin, 
Though  you  hired  an  earwig  to  carry  it  in  ! 

In  short,  she  was  twice  as  deaf  as  Deaf  Burke, 

Or  all  the  deafness  in  Yearsley's  Work, 

Who,  in  spite  of  his  skill  in  hardness  of  hearing, 
Boring,  blasting,  and  pioneering. 
To  give  the  dunny  organ  a  clearing. 

Could  never  have  cured  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing. 

Of  course  the  loss  was  a  great  privation. 
For  one  of  her  sex  —  whatever  her  station  — 
And  none  the  less  that  the  dame  had  a  turn 


310  A    TALE    OF   A    TRUMPET. 

For  making  all  flimilies  one  concern, 

And  learning  whatever  there  was  to  learn 

In  the  prattling,  tattling  village  of  Tringham  — 

As  wJio  wore  silk  7  and  who  wore  gingham  7 

And  what  the  Atkins's  shop  might  bring  'em? 

How  the  Smiths  contrived  to  live  ?  and  whether 

The  fourteen  Murphys  all  pigged  together? 

The  wages  per  week  of  the  Weavers  and  Skinners, 

And  what  they  boiled  for  their  Sunday  dinners  ? 

What  plates  the  Bugsbys  had  on  the  shelf, 

Crockery,  china,  wooden,  or  delf  7 

And  if  the  parlor  of  Mrs.  0' Grady 

Had  a  wicked  French  print,  or  Death  and  the  Lady  7 

Did  Snip  and  his  wife  continue  to  jangle  7 

Had  Mrs.  Wilkinson  sold  her  mangle  7 

What  liquor  was  drunk  by  Jones  and  Brown  7 

And  the  weekly  score  they  ran  up  at  the  Crown  7 

If  the  cobbler  could  read,  and  believed  in  the  Pope  7 

And  how  the  Grubbs  were  off  for  soap  7 

If  the  Snobbs  had  furnished  their  room  up  stairs. 

And  how  they  managed  for  tables  and  chairs, 

Beds,  and  other  household  affairs. 

Iron,  wooden,  and  Staftbrdshire  wares  ; 

And  if  they  could  muster  a  whole  pair  of  bellows  1 
In  fact  she  had  much  of  the  spirit  that  lies 
Perdu  in  a  notable  set  of  Paul  Prys, 

By  courtesy  called  Statistical  Fellows  — 
A  prying,  spying,  inquisitive  clan, 
Who  had  gone  upon  much  of  the  self-same  plan, 

Jotting  the  laboring  class's  riches  ; 
And  after  poking  in  pot  and  pan. 

And  routing  garments  in  want  of  stitches, 
Have  ascertained  that  a  working  maif 

Wears  a  pair  and  a  quarter  of  average  breeches ! 


[F=^ 


A   TALE    OF   A    TRUMPET.  J31] 

But  this,  alas  !  from  her  loss  of  hearing, 

Was  all  a  sealed  book  to  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing ; 
And  often  her  tears  would  rise  to  their  founts  — 

Supposing  a  little  scandal  at  play 

'Twixt  Mrs.  O'Fie  and  Mrs.  Au  Fait  — 

That  she  could  n't  audit  the  gossips'  accounts. 

'T  is  true,  to  her  cottage  still  they  came, 

And  ate  her  muffins  just  the  same. 

And  drank  the  tea  of  the  widowed  dame, 

And  never  swallowed  a  thimble  the  less 
Of  something  the  reader  is  left  to  guess, 
For  all  the  deafness  of  Mrs.  S., 

Who  saiu  them  talk,  and  chuckle,  and  cough, 
But  to  see  and  not  share  in  the  social  flow. 
She  might  as  well  have  lived,  you  know. 
In  one  of  the  houses  in  Owen's  Row, 

Near  the  New  River  Head,  with  its  water  cut  off! 

And  yet  the  almond-oil  she  had  tried. 

And  fifty  infallible  things  beside, 

Hot,  and  cold,  and  thick,  and  thin, 

Dabbed,  and  dribbled,  and  squirted  in  : 
But  all  remedies  failed ;  and  though  some  it  was  clear 

(Like  the  brandy  and  salt 

We  now  exalt) 
Had  made  a  noise  in  the  public  ear. 
She  was  just  as  deaf  as  ever,  poor  dear 

At  last  —  one  very  fine  day  in  June  — 
Suppose  her  sitting, 
Busily  knitting, 
And  humming  she  did  n't  quite  know  what  tune  , 

For  nothing  she  heard  but  a  sort  of  a  whizz, 
Which,  unless  the  sound  of  a  circulation, 
Or  of  thoughts  in  the  process  of  fabrication, 


312  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

By  a  spinning-jennjish  operation, 

It  "s  hard  to  say  what  buzzing  it  is. 
However,  except  that  ghost  of  a  sound, 
She  sat  in  a  silence  most  profound  — 
The  cat  was  purring  about  the  mat. 
But  her  mistress  heard  no  more  of  that 
Than  if  it  had  been  a  boatswain's  cat  ; 
And  as  for  the  clock  the  moments  nicking, 
The  dame  only  gave  it  credit  for  ticking. 
The  bark  of  her  dog  she  did  not  catch  ; 
Nor  yet  the  click  of  the  lifted  latch  ; 
Nor  yet  the  creak  of  the  opening  door  ; 
Nor  yet  the  fall  of  the  foot  on  the  floor  — 
But  she  saw  the  shadow  that  crept  on  her  gown, 
And  turned  its  skirt  of  a  darker  brown. 

And,  lo  !  a  man  !  a  pedler  7  ay.  marry. 

With  a  little  back-shop  that  such  tradesmen  carry, 

Stocked  with  brooches,  ribbons,  and  rings, 

Spectacles,  razors,  and  other  odd  things, 

For  lad  and  lass,  as  Autolycus  sings ; 

A  chapman  for  goodness  and  cheapness  of  ware 

Held  a  fair  dealer  enoiigh  at  a  fair, 

But  deemed  a  piratical  sort  of  invader 

By  him  we  dub  the  '•  regular  trader," 

Who,  luring  the  passengers  in  as  they  pass 

By  lamps,  gay  panels,  and  mouldings  of  brass. 

And  windows  with  only  one  huge  pane  of  glass, 

And  his  name  in  gilt  characters.  GeiTQan  or  Roman 

If  he  is  n't  a  pedler,  at  least  is  a  showman  ! 

However,  in  the  stranger  came, 

And,  the  moment  he  met  the  eyes  of  the  dame, 

Threw  her  as  knowino-  a  nod  as  thoucrh 

He  had  known  her  fifty  long  years  ago ; 


A   TALE    OF   A   TRUMPET.  31< 

And,  presto  !  before  slie  could  utter  "Jack" — 
Much  less  ''  Robinson"  —  opened  his  pack  — 

And  then  from  amongst  his  portable  gear, 
With  even  more  than  a  pedler's  tact, — 
(Slick  himself  might  have  envied  the  act) — 
Before  she  had  time  to  be  deaf,  in  fact, 

Popped  a  trumpet  into  her  ear. 

"  There,  ma'am  !  try  it ! 

You  need  n't  buy  it  — 
The  last  new  patent  —  and  nothing  comes  nigh  it 
For  affording  the  deaf,  at  little  expense, 
The  sense  of  hearing,  and  hearing  of  sense  ! 
A  real  blessing  —  and  no  mistake, 
Invented  for  poor  humanity's  sake; 
For  what  can  be  a  greater  privation 
Than  playing  dummy  to  all  creation, 
And  only  looking  at  conversation  — 
Great  philosophers  talking  like  Platos, 
And  members  of  Parliament  moral  as  Catos, 
And  your  ears  as  dull  as  waxy  potatoes  ! 
Not  to  name  the  mischievous  quizzers, 
Sharp  as  knives,  but  double  as  scissors. 
Who  get  you  to  answer  quite  by  guess 
Yes  for  no,  and  no  for  yes." 
("  That 's  very  true,"  says  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Try  it  again !     No  harm  in  trying  — 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  find  it  worth  your  buying. 
A  little  practice — that  is  all  — 
And  you  "11  hear  a  whisper,  however  small. 
Through  an  Act  of  Parliament  party  wall, — 
Every  syllable  clear  as  day, 
And  even  what  people  are  going  to  say  — 
27 


314  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

I  would  n't  tell  a  lie,  I  would  n't, 

But  my  trumpets  have  heard  what  Solomon's  could  n't ; 
And  as  for  Scott,  he  promises  fine, 
But  can  he  warrant  liis  horns,  like  mine, 

Never  to  hear  what  a  lady  shouldn't?  — 
Only  a  guinea  —  and  can't  take  less." 
("  That 's  very  dear,"  says  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Dear  !  —  0  dear,  to  call  it  dear ! 
Why  it  is  n"t  a  horn  you  buy,  but  an  ear ; 
Only  think,  and  you  '11  find  on  reflection 
You  're  bargaining,  ma'am,  for  the  Voice  of  Affection  ; 
For  the  language  of  Wisdom,  and  Virtue,  and  Truth, 
And  the  sweet  little  innocent  prattle  of  youth : 
Not  to  mention  the  striking;  of  clocks  — 
Cackle  of  hens —  crowing  of  cocks  — 
Lowing  of  cow.  and  bull,  and  ox  — 
Bleating  of  pretty  pastoral  flocks  — 
Murmur  of  waterfall  over  the  rocks — 
Every  sound  that  Echo  mocks  — 
Vocals,  fiddles,  and  musical-box  — 
And,  zounds  !  to  call  such  a  concert  dear ! 
But  I  must  n't  swear  with  my  horn  in  your  ear. 
Why,  in  buying  that  trumpet  you  buy  all  those 
That  Harper,  or  any  trumpeter,  blows 
At  the  Queen's  levees,  or  the  Lord  Mayor's  shows, 
At  least  as  far  as  the  music  goes, 
Licluding  the  wonderful  lively  sound 
Of  the  Guards'  key-bugles  all  the  year  round. 
Come  —  suppose  we  call  it  a  pound  ! 
Come,"  said  the  talkative  man  of  the  pack, 
"  Before  I  put  my  box  on  my  back. 
For  this  elegant,  useful  conductor  of  sound, 
Come  —  suppose  we  call  it  a  pound  ' 


A   TALE    OF   A   TRUMPET.  315 

"  Only  a  pound  !  it 's  only  the  price 
Of  hearing  a  concert  once  or  twice, 

It 's  only  the  fee 

You  might  give  Mr.  C, 
And  after  all  not  hear  his  advice, 
But  common  prudence  would  bid  you  stump  it ; 

For.  not  to  enlarge, 

It 's  the  regular  charge 
At  a  fancy  fair  for  a  penny  trumpet. 
Lord  !  what  "s  a  pound  to  the  blessing  of  hearing  !  " 
("A  pound  s  a  pound,"  said  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing.) 

"  Try  it  again  I  no  harm  in  trying  ! 

A  pound  "s  a  pound,  there  "s  no  denying  ; 

But  think  what  thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds 

We  pay  for  nothing  but  hearing  sounds ; 

Sounds  of  equity,  justice,  and  law, 

Parliamentary  jabber  and  jaw, 

Pious  cant  and  moral  saw, 

Hocus-pocuS;  and  Xong-tong-paw, 

And  empty  sounds  not  worth  a  straw  ; 

Why,  it  costs  a  guinea,  as  I  'm  a  sinner, 

To  hear  the  sounds  at  a  public  dinner ! 

One-pound-one  thrown  into  the  puddle, 

To  listen  to  fiddle,  faddle  and  fuddle  ! 

Kot  to  forget  the  sounds  we  buy 

From  those  who  sell  their  sounds  so  high, 

That,  unless  the  managers  pitch  it  strong, 

To  get  a  signora  to  warble  a  song 

Ton  must  fork  out  the  blunt  with  a  haymaker's  prong. 

"  It 's  not  the  thing  for  me  —  I  know  it — 
To  crack  my  own  trumpet  up  and  blow  it: 
But  it  is  the  best,  and  time  will  show  it. 


316  A   TALE   OP   A   TRUMPET. 

There  was  Mrs.  F. 

So  very  deaf, 
That  she  might  have  worn  a  percussion-cap, 
And  been  knocked  on  the  head  without  hearing  it  snap 
Well,  I  sold  her  a  horn,  and  the  very  next  day 
She  heard  from  her  husband  at  Botany  Bay  ! 
Come  —  eighteen  shillings — that 's  very  low. 
You  '11  save  the  money  as  shillings  go, — 
And  I  never  knew  so  bad  a  lot, — 
By  hearing  whether  they  ring  or  not ! 
Eighteen  shillings  !  it 's  worth  the  price, 
Supposing  you  're  delicate-minded  and  nice, 
To  have  the  medical  man  of  your  choice. 
Instead  of  the  one  with  the  strongest  voice  — 
Who  comes  and  asks  you  how  's  your  liver, 
And  where  you  ache,  and  whether  you  shiver, 
And  as  to  your  nerves  so  apt  to  quiver, 
As  if  he  was  hailing  a  boat  on  the  river  ! 
And  then,  with  a  shout,  like  Pat  in  a  riot. 
Tells  you  to  keep  yourself  perfectly  quiet ! 

"Or  a  tradesman  comes  —  as  tradesmen  will  — 
Short  and  crusty  about  his  bill, 

Of  patience,  indeed,  a  perfect  scorner. 
And  because  you  're  deaf  and  unable  to  pay, 
Shouts  whatever  he  has  to  say, 
In  a  vulgar  voice  that  goes  over  the  way, 

Down  the  street  and  round  the  corner  ! 
Come  —  speak  your  mind  —  it 's  '  No  or  Yes.'  " 
("  I  've  half  a  mind,"  said  Dame  Eleanor  S.) 

"  Try  it  again  —  no  harm  in  trying ; 

Of  course  you  hear  me,  as  easy  as  lying  ; 

No  pain  at  all,  like  a  surgical  trick. 

To  make  you  squall,  and  struggle,  and  kick, 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET.  317 

Like  Jul  10.  or  Rose, 

Whose  ear  undergoes 
Such  horrid  tugs  at  membrane  and  gristle, 
For  being  as  deaf  as  youreelf  to  a  whistle  ! 

"  You  maj  go  to  surgical  chaps,  if  you  choose. 

Who  will  blow  up  your  tubes  like  copper  flues. 

Or  cut  your  tonsils  right  away, 

As  you'd  shell  out  your  almonds  for  Christmas-day; 

And  after  all  a  matter  of  doubt. 

Whether  you  ever  would  hem'  the  shout 

Of  the  little  blackguards  that  bawl  about, 

•  There  you  go  with  your  tonsils  out ! ' 

Why.  I  knew  a  deaf  Welshman  who  came  from  Glamorgan 

On  purpose  to  try  a  surgical  spell, 

And  paid  a  guinea,  and  might  as  well 
Hare  called  a  monkey  into  his  organ ! 
For  the  Aurist  only  took  a  mug, 
And  poured  in  his  ear  some  acoustical  drug, 
That,  instead  of  curing,  deafened  him  rather, 
As  Hamlet's  uncle  served  Hamlet's  father  I 
That 's  the  way  with  your  surgical  gentry  ! 
And  happy  your  luck 
K  you  don't  get  stuck 
Tlxrough  your  liver  and  lights  at  a  royal  entry, 
Because  you  never  answered  the  sentry  ! 

'•  Try  it  again,  dear  madam,  try  it ! 
Many  would  sell  their  beds  to  buy  it. 
I  warrant  you  often  wake  up  in  the  night. 
Ready  to  shake  to  a  jelly  with  fright, 
And  up  you  must  get  to  strike  a  light. 
And  down  you  go  in  you  know  not  what, 
Whether  the  weather  is  chilly  or  not, — 
27* 


318  A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 

That 's  the  way  a  cold  is  got, — 
To  see  if  you  heard  a  noise  or  not ' 

"  Wlij,  bless  jou,  a  woman  with  organs  like  yours 
Is  hardly  safe  to  step  out  of  doors  ! 
Just  fancy  a  horse  that  conies  full  pelt, 
But  as  quiet  as  if  he  was  '  shod  with  felt,' 
Till  he  rushes  against  you  with  all  his  force, 
x\nd  then  I  need  n't  describe,  of  course, 
Vfhile  he  kicks  you  about  without  remorse, 
How  awkward  it  is  to  be  groomed  by  a  horse  ! 
Or  a  bullock  comes,  as  mad  as  King  Lear, 
And  you  never  di'eam  that  the  brute  is  near, 
Till  he  pokes  his  horn  right  into  your  ear, 
Whether  you  like  the  thing  or  lump  it, — 
And  all  for  want  of  buying  a  trumpet ! 

"  I  'm  not  a  female  to  fret  and  vex, 
But  if  I  belonged  to  the  sensitive  sex, 
Exposed  to  all  sorts  of  indelicate  sounds, 
I  wouldn't  be  deaf  for  a  thousand  pounds. 

Lord  !  only  think  of  chucking  a  copper 
To  Jack  or  Bob  with  a  timber  limb, 
^^^lO  looks  as  if  he  was  singing  a  hymn. 

Instead  of  a  song  that 's  very  improper ! 
Or  just  suppose  in  a  public  place 
You  see  a  great  fellow  a-pulling  a  face, 
With  his  staring  eyes  and  his  mouth  like  an  0, — 
And  how  is  a  poor  deaf  lady  to  know  — 
The  lower  orders  are  up  to  such  games  — 
If  he 's  calling  '  Green  Peas,'  or  calling  her  names  ?  " 
(•'•  They  're  tenpence  a  peck  !  "  said  the  deafest  of  dames.) 

"  'Tis  strange  what  very  strong  advising, 
By  word  of  mouth  or  advertising. 


A   TALE    OF   A   TRUilPET, 


319 


Bj  chalking  on  walls,  or  placarding  on  vans, 

With  fifty  other  different  plans, 

The  very  high  pressure,  in  fact,  of  pressing, 

It  needs  to  persuade  one  to  purchase  a  blessing  ! 

"WTiether  the  Soothing  American  Syrup, 

A  Safety  Hat  or  a  Safety  Stirrup, — 

Lifallible  Pills  for  the  human  frame. 

Or  Rowland's  0-don't-o  (an  ominous  name  !) 

A  Doudney"s  suit  which  the  shape  so  hits 

That  it  beats  all  others  into  Jits  ; 

A  Mechi's  razor  for  beards  unshorn, 

Or  a  Ghost-of-a- Whisper-Catching  Horn  ! 

"  Try  it  again,  ma'am,  only  try  !  " 

Was  still  the  voluble  pedler's  cry  ; 

"  It 's  a  great  privation,  there  's  no  dispute, 

To  live  like  the  dumb  unsociable  brute. 

And  to  hear  no  more  of  the  pro  and  cofi, 

And  how  society's  going  on, 

Than  Mumbo  Jumbo  or  Prester  John, 

And  all  for  want  of  this  sme  qua  non  ; 

Whereas,  with  a  horn  that  never  offends, 
You  may  join  the  genteelest  party  that  is, 
And  enjoy  all  the  scandal,  and  gossip,  and  quiz, 

And  be  certain  to  hear  of  your  absent  friends ; 
Not  that  elegant  ladies,  in  fact. 
In  genteel  society  ever  detract. 
Or  lend  a  brush  when  a  friend  is  blacked. 
At  least  as  a  mere  malicious  act. — 
But  only  talk  scandal  for  fear  some  fool 
Should  think  they  were  bred  at  charity  school. 

Or,  maybe,  you  like  a  little  flirtation. 
Which  even  the  most  Don  Juanish  rake 
Would  surely  object  to  undertiike 

At  the  same  high  pitch  as  an  altercation. 


320  A    TALE    OF    A    IRrMPET. 

It  "s  not  for  me.  of  course,  to  judge 

How  much  a  deaf  ladj  ought  to  begrudge ; 

But  half-a-gumea  seems  no  great  matter  — 

Letting  alone  more  rational  patter  — 

Onlj  to  hear  a  2'»arrot  chatter  : 

Not  to  mention  that  feathered  wit, 

The  starling,  who  speaks  when  his  tongue  is  slit ; 

The  pies  and  jajs  that  utter  words, 

And  other  Dicky  Gossips  of  bu'ds, 

That  talk  with  as  much  good  sense  and  decorum 

As  many  Beaks  who  belong  to  the  quorum. 

'•  Try  it  —  buy  it  —  say  ten-and-sLx, 

The  lowest  price  a  miser  could  fix : 

I  don't  pretend  with  horns  of  mine, 

Like  some  in  the  advertisina;  line. 

To  ' inagnlfy  sounds'  on  such  marvellous  scales, 

That  the  sounds  of  a  cod  seem  as  big  as  a  whale's ; 

But  popular  rumors,  right  or  wrong, — 

Charity  sermons,  short  or  long, — 

Lecture,  speech,  concerto,  or  song, 

All  noises  and  voices,  feeble  or  strong, 

From  the  hum  of  a  gnat  to  the  clash  of  a  gong, 

This  tube  will  deliver,  distinct  and  clear ; 

Or  supposing  by  chance 

You  wish  to  dance. 
Why,  it  "s  putting  a  Horn-pipe  into  your  ear  ! 

Try  it  —  buy  it ! 

Buy  it  —  try  it ! 
The  last  new  patent,  and  nothing  comes  nigh  it, 

For  guiding  sounds  to  proper  tunnel : 
Only  try  till  the  end  of  June, 
And  if  you  and  the  tnimpet  are  out  of  tune, 
I  '11  turn  it  gratis  into  a  funnel  !  " 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 


321 


In  short,  tlie  pcdler  so  beset  her, — 
Lord  Bacon  couldn't  have  gammoned  her  better, — 
With  flatteries  plump  and  indirect, 
And  plied  his  tongue  with  such  effect, — 
A  tongue  that  could  almost  have  buttered  a  crumpet. 
The  deaf  old  woman  bought  the  trumpet. 
****** 
****** 
The  pedler  was  gone.    With  the  horn's  assistance, 
She  heard  his  steps  die  away  in  the  distance  ; 
And  then  she  heard  the  tick  of  the  clock, 
The  purring  of  puss,  and  the  snoring  of  Shock ! 
And  she  purposely  dropt  a  pin  that  was  little, 
And  heai-d  it  fall  as  plain  as  a  skittle  ! 

'T  was  a  wonderful  horn,  to  be  but  just ! 
Nor  meant  to  gather  dust,  must,  and  rust : 
So  in  half  a  jiffy,  or  less  than  that, 
In  her  scarlet  cloak  and  her  steeple  hat, 
Like  old  Dame  Trot,  but  without  her  Cat, 
The  gossip  was  hunting  all  Tringham  thorough, 
As  if  she  meant  to  canvass  the  borough. 

Trumpet  in  hand,  or  up  to  the  cavity  :  — 
And,  sure,  had  the  horn  been  one  of  those 
The  wild  rhinoceros  wears  on  his  nose 

It  couldn't  have  ripped  up  more  depravity  ! 

Depravity  !  mercy  shield  her  ears  ! 

'T  was  plain  enough  that  her  village  peers 

In  the  ways  of  vice  were  no  raw  beginners ; 
For  whenever  she  raised  the  tube  to  her  drum, 
Such  sounds  were  transmitted  as  only  come 

From  the  very  brass  band  of  human  sinners ! 

Ribald  jest  and  blasphemous  curse, 
(Bunyan  never  vented  worse,) 


r=.l 


322  A   TALE   OF  A   TEUMPET. 

With  all  those  weeds,  not  flowers,  of  speech 

Which  the  seven  Dialecticians  teach ; 

Filthy  conjunctions,  and  dissolute  nouns, 

And  particles  picked  from  the  kennels  of  towns, 

With  irregular  verbs  for  irregular  jobs. 

Chiefly  active  in  rows  and  mobs, 

Picking  possessive  pronouns'  fobs. 

And  interjections  as  bad  as  a  blight. 

Or  an  Eastern  blast,  to  the  blood  and  the  sight ; 

Fanciful  phrases  for  crime  and  sin. 

And  smacking  of  vulgar  lips  where  gin, 

Garlic,  tobacco,  and  ofials  go  in  — 

A  jargon  so  truly  adapted,  in  fact, 

To  each  thievish,  obscene,  and  ferocious  act. 

So  fit  for  the  brute  with  the  human  shape. 

Savage  baboon,  or  libidinous  ape. 

From  their  ugly  mouths  it  will  certainly  come 

Should  they  ever  get  weary  of  shamming  dumb  ! 

Alas  !  for  the  voice  of  Virtue  and  Truth, 
And  the  sweet  little  innocent  prattle  of  youth ! 
The  smallest  urchin  whose  tongue  could  tang 
Shocked  the  dame  with  a  volley  of  slang, 
Fit  for  Fagin's  juvenile  gang  ; 
While  the  charity  chap. 
With  his  mufiin  cap, 

His  crimson  coat  and  his  badge  so  parish, 
Playing  at  dumps,  or  pitch  in  the  hole, 
Cursed  his  eyes,  limbs,  body,  and  soul, 

As  if  they  did  n't  belong  to  the  parish  ! 
'T  was  awful  to  hear,  as  she  went  along, 
The  wicked  words  of  the  popular  song ; 

Or  supposing  she  listened  —  as  gossips  will  — 
At  a  door  ajar,  or  a  window  agape, 
To  catch  the  sounds  they  allowed  to  escape, 


A    TALE    OF    A    TRUMPET. 


323 


Those  sounds  belonged  to  Depravity  still ! 
The  dark  allusion,  or  bolder  brag 
Of  the  dexterous  "  dodge,"  and  the  lots  of  "  s^Yag," 
The  plundered  house  —  or  the  stolen  nag  — 
The  blazing  rick,  or  the  darker  crime 
That  (quenched  the  spark  l^efore  its  time  — 
The  wanton  speech  of  the  wife  immoral  — 
The  noise  of  drunken  or  deadly  quarrel, — 
With  savage  menaces,  which  threatened  the  life, 
Till  the  heart  seemed  merely  a  strop  "  for  the  knife  ;  ' 
The  human  liver,  no  better  than  that 
Which  is  sliced  and  thrown  to  an  old  woman's  cat ; 

And  the  head,  so  usefiil  for  shaking  and  nodding, 
To  be  punched  into  holes,  like  a  "  shocking  bad  hat " 

That  is  only  fit  to  be  punched  into  Avadding ! 

In  short,  wherever  she  turned  the  horn. 
To  the  highly  bred  or  the  lowly  born. 
The  working  man  who  looked  over  the  hedge, 
Or  the  mother  nursing  her  infant  pledge. 
The  sober  Quaker,  averse  to  quarrels. 
Or  the  governess  pacmg  the  village  through, 
With  her  twelve  young  ladies,  two  and  two. 
Looking,  as  such  young  ladies  do, 

Trus'sed  by  Decorum  and  stuffed  with  morals  — 
Whether  she  listened  to  Hob  or  Bob, 
Nob  or  Snob, 
The  Squire  on  his  cob, 
Or  Trudge  and  his  ass  at  a  tinkering  job. 
To  the  saint  who  expounded  at  "  Little  Zion  ' — 
Or  the  "  sinner  who  kept  the  Golden  Lion  '' — 
The  man  teetotally  weaned  from  liquor  — 
The  beadle,  the  clerk,  or  the  reverend  vicar  — 
Nay,  the  very  pie  in  its  cage  of  wicker  — 
She  gathered  such  meanings,  double  or  single, 


324  A    TALE    OF    A   TRUMPET. 

That,  like  the  bell 
With  muffins  to  sell, 
Her  ear  was  kept  in  a  constant  tingle  ! 

But  this  was  naught  to  the  tales  of  shame, 
■    The  constant  runnings  of  evil  fame, 
Foul,  and  dirty,  and  black  as  ink. 
That  her  ancient  cronies,  with  nod  and  wink, 
Poured  in  her  horn  like  slops  in  a  sink  : 

"While  sitting  in  conclave,  as  gossips  do, 
With  their  Hyson  or  Howqua,  black  or  green, 
And  not  a  little  of  feline  spleen 

Lapped  up  in  "  Catty  "packages,"  too, 

To  give  a  zest  to  the  sipping  and  supping  ; 
For  still,  by  some  invisible  tether. 
Scandal  and  tea  are  linked  together, 

As  surely  as  scarification  and  cupping  ; 
Yet  never  since  Scandal  drank  Bohea  — 
Or  sloe,  or  whatever  it  happened  to  be, 
For  some  grocerly  thieves 
Turn  over  new  leaves 
Without  much  amending  their  lives  or  their  tea  — 
No,  never  since  cup  was  filled  or  stirred. 
Were  such  vile  and  horrible  anecdotes  heard. 
As  blackened  their  neighbors  of  either  gender, 
Especially  that  which  is  called  the  Tender, 
But  instead  of  the  softness  we  fancy  therewith, 
As  hardened  in  vice  as  the  vice  of  a  smith. 

Women  !  the  wretches  !  had  soiled  and  marred 
Whatever  to  womanly  nature  belongs  ; 

For  the  marriage  tie  they  had  no  regard. 

Nay,  sped  their  mates  to  the  sexton's  yard, 

(Like  Madame  Lafiarge,  who  with  poisonous  pinches 
Kept  cutting  off  her  L  by  inches) 

And  as  for  drinking,  they  drank  so  hard 


A  TALE   OF   A   TRUMPET. 


325 


That  they  drank  their  flat-irons,  pokers,  and  tongs ! 
The  men  —  thej  fought  and  gambled  at  fairs ; 
And  poached  —  and  did  n't  respect  gray  hairs  — 
Stole  linen,  money,  plate,  poultry,  and  corses ; 
And  broke  in  houses  as  well  as  horses ; 
Unfolded  folds  to  kill  their  o^vn  mutton, 
And  -would  their  ovm.  mothers  and  wives  for  a  button  — 
But  not  to  repeat  the  deeds  they  did, 
Backsliding  in  spite  of  all  moral  skid. 
If  all  were  true  that  fell  from  the  tongue. 
There  was  not  a  villager,  old  or  young. 
But  deserved  to  be  whipped,  imprisoned,  or  hung, 
Or  sent  on  those  travels  which  nobody  hurries 
To  publish  at  Colburn's,  or  Longmans',  or  Murray's. 

Meanwhile  the  trumpet,  co}i  amore^ 
Transmitted  each  -vile  diabolical  story  ; 
And  gave  the  least  whisper  of  slips  and  falls, 
As  that  gallery  does  in  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's, 
Which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  by  practice  or  print, 
Is  famous  for  making  the  most  of  a  hint. 
Not  a  murmur  of  shame. 
Or  buzz  of  blame, 
Not  a  flying  report  that  flew  at  a  name, 
Not  a  plausible  gloss,  or  significant  note, 
Not  a  word  in  the  scandalous  circles  afloat 
Of  a  beam  in  the  eye  or  diminutive  mote, 
But  vortex-like  that  tube  of  tin 
Sucked  the  censorious  particle  in ; 

And,  truth  to  tell,  for  as  willinor  an  organ 
As  ever  listened  to  serpent's  hiss. 
Nor  took  the  viperous  sound  amiss, 

On  the  snaky  head  of  an  ancient  Gorgon ! 
28 


S26 


A    TALE    OF   A    TRUMPET. 


The  dame,  it  is  true,  Yrould  mutter  "  Shocking  !  " 
And  give  her  head  a  sorrowful  rocking, 
And  make  a  clucking  with  palate  and  tongue, 
Like  the  call  of  Partlett  to  gather  her  young,  — 
A  sound,  when  human,  that  always  proclaims 
At  least  a  thousand  pities  and  shames. 

But  still  the  darker  the  tale  of  sin, 
Like  certain  folks  when  calamities  burst, 
Who  find  a  comfort  in  "  hearing  the  worst," 

The  further  she  poked  the  trumpet  in. 
Kay,  worse,  whatever  she  heard,  she  spread 

East,  and  West,  and  North,  and  South, 
Like  the  ball  which,  according  to  Captain  Z., 

Went  in  at  his  ear,  and  came  out  at  his  mouth. 

What  wonder,  between  the  horn  and  the  dame, 
Such  mischief  was  made  wherever  they  came. 
That  the  parish  of  Tringham  was  all  in  a  flame  I 

For  although  it  requires  such  loud  discharges, 
Such  peals  of  thunder  as  rumbled  at  Lear, 
To  turn  the  smallest  of  table-beer, 
A  little  whisper  breathed  into  tlie  ear 

Will  sour  a  temper  '•'  as  sour  as  varges." 
In  fact,  such  very  ill  blood  there  grew, 

From  this  private  circulation  of  stories. 
That  the  nearest  neighbors,  the  ^-ilkge  through, 
Looked  at  each  other  as  yellow  and  blue 
As  any  electioneering  crew 

Wearing  the  colors  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 

Ah  !  well  the  poet  said,  in  sooth, 

That  ■'  whispering  tongues  can  poison  Truth," 

Yea,  like  a  dose  of  oxalic  acid, 

Wrench  and  convulse  poor  Peace,  the  placid, 


r~ 


A    TALE    OF   A    TRUMPET.  327 

And  rack  dear  Love  with  internal  fuel, 
Like  arsenic  pastry,  or,  what  is  as  cruel, 
Sugar  of  lead,  that  sweetens  gruel ; 
At  least  such  torments  began  to  wring  'em 

From  the  ver  j  morn 

When  that  mischievous  horn 
Caught  the  whisper  of  tongues  in  Tringham. 

The  Social  Clubs  dissolved  in  huifs. 

And  the  Sons  of  Harmony  came  to  cuflfs. 

While  feuds  arose,  and  family  quarrels. 

That  discomposed  the  mechanics  of  morals, 

For  screws  were  loose  between  brother  and  brother, 

While  sisters  fastened  their  nails  on  each  other  : 

Such  wrangles,  and  jangles,  and  miff,  and  tiff, 

And  spar,  and  jar  —  and  breezes  as  stiff 

As  ever  upset  a  friendship  or  skiff ! 

The  plighted  lovers,  who  used  to  walk, 

Refused  to  meet,  and  declined  to  talk  ; 

And  wished  for  two  moons  to  reflect  the  sun, 

That  they  mightn't  look  together  on  one ; 

While  wedded  affection  ran  so  low. 

That  the  oldest  John  Andei-son  snubbed  his  Jo  — 

And  instead  of  the  toddle  adown  the  hill. 

Hand  in  hand, 

As  the  song  has  planned. 
Scratched  her,  penniless,  out  of  his  will ! 

In  short,  to  describe  what  came  to  pass 

Li  a  true,  though  somewhat  theatrical  way. 
Instead  of  "  Love  in  a  Village  "  —  alas  ! 
The  piece  they  performed  was  ' '  The  De"\il  to  Pay ! ' 

However,  as  secrets  are  l)rought  to  light, 

And  mischief  comes  home  like  chickens  at  night ; 


328  A   TALE    OF   A   TRUMPET. 

And  rivers  are  tracked  throughout  their  course, 
And  forgeries  traced  to  their  proper  source  ;  — 

And  the  sow  that  ought 

By  the  ear  is  caught, — 
And  the  sin  to  the  sinful  door  is  brought ; 
And  the  cat  at  last  escapes  from  the  bag  — 
And  the  saddle  is  placed  on  the  proper  nag ; 
And  the  fog  blows  off,  and  the  key  is  found  — 
And  the  faulty  scent  is  picked  out  by  the  hound  — 
And  the  fact  turns  up  like  a  worm  from  the  ground  — 
And  the  matter  gets  wind  to  waft  it  about ; 
And  a  hint  goes  abroad,  and  the  murder  is  out  — 
And  the  riddle  is  guessed  —  and  the  puzzle  is  known — ■ 
So  the  truth  was  sniffed,  and  the  trumpet  was  blown  ! 

*4^  ^^  4^  ^^ 

TT  TT  TP  TV 

'T  is  a  day  in  November  —  a  day  of  fog  — 
But  the  Tringham  people  are  all  agog  ; 
Fathers,  mothers,  and  mothers'  sons, — 
With  sticks,  and  staves,  and  swords,  and  guns, — 
As  if  in  pursuit  of  a  rabid  dog  ; 
But  their  voices  —  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  — 
Declare  that  the  game  is  "  a  Witch  !  —  a  Witch  !  " 
Over  the  green  and  along  by  the  George  — 
Past  the  stocks,  and  the  church,  and  the  forge, 
And  round  the  pound,  and  skirting  the  pond, 
Till  they  come  to  the  whitewashed  cottage  beyond, 
And  there  at  the  door  they  muster  and  cluster. 
And  thump,  and  kick,  and  bellow,  and  bluster  — 
Enough  to  put  old  Nick  in  a  fluster  ! 
A  noise,  indeed,  so  loud  and  long, 
And  mixed  with  expressions  so  very  strong. 
That  supposing,  according  to  popular  fame, 
"  Wise  Woman  "  and  Witch  to  be  the  same, 


A   TALE    OF  A   TRUMPET. 


329 


Xo  hag  with  a  broom  would  un\visely  stop, 
But  up  and  away  through  the  chimnej-top ; 
Whereas,  the  moment  thej  bui-st  the  door, 
Phmted  fast  ou  her  sanded  floor. 
With  her  trumpet  up  to  her  organ  of  hearing, 
Lo  and  behold  !  —  Dame  Eleanor  Spearing  ! 

0  !  then  arises  the  fearful  shout  — 
Bawled  and  screamed,  and  bandied  about  — 
"  Seize  her  !  — di'ag  the  old  Jezebel  out !  " 
While  the  beadle  —  the  foremost  of  all  the  band 
Snatches  the  horn  from  her  trembling  hand. 
And  after  a  pause  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Puts  it  up  to  his  sharpest  ear. 

"  Now  silence  —  silence  —  one  and  all !  " 
For  the  clerk  is  quoting  from  Holy  Paul ' 

But  before  he  rehearses 

A  couple  of  verses, 
The  beadle  lets  the  trumpet  fall ; 
For  instead  of  the  words  so  pious  and  humble, 
He  hears  a  supernatural  grumble. 

Enough,  enouojh  !  and  more  than  enough  ;  — 
Twenty  impatient  hands  and  rough, 
By  arm.  and  leg.  and  neck,  and  scruff, 
Apron,  "kerchief,  gown  of  stuff — 
Cap,  and  pinner,  sleeve,  and  cuff — 
Are  clutching  the  Witch  wherever  they  can, 
With  the  spite  of  woman  and  fury  of  man  ; 
And  then  —  but  first  they  kill  her  cat, 
And  murder  her  dog  on  the  very  mat  — 
And  crush  the  infernal  trumpet  flat ;  — 
And  then  they  hurry  her  through  the  door 
She  never,  never,  will  enter  more  ! 
28* 


330 


A    TALE    or    A    TRUMPET. 


Awaj  !  away  !  down  the  clustj  lane 

They  pull  her,,  and  haul  her,  with  might  and  main ; 

And  happy  the  hawbuck,  Tom  or  Harry, 

Dandy,  or  Sandy,  Jerry,  or  Larry, 

"Who  happens  to  get  ••'  a  leg  to  carry  !  " 

And  happy  the  foot  that  can  give  her  a  kick. 

And  happy  the  hand  that  can  find  a  brick  — 

And  happy  the  fingers  that  hold  a  stick  — 

Knife  to  cut.  or  pin  to  prick  — 

And  happy  the  boy  who  can  lend  her  a  lick ;  — 

Is  ay,  happy  the  urchin  —  charity-bred  — 

Who  can  shy  very  nigh  to  her  ^-icked  old  head ! 

Alas  !  to  think  how  people's  creeds 
Are  contradicted  by  people's  deeds  ! 

But  though  the  wishes  that  Witches  utter 
Can  play  the  most  diabolical  rigs  — 
Send  styes  in  the  eye  —  and  measle  the  pigs  — 

Grease  horses'  heels  —  and  spoil  the  butter  ; 
Smut  and  mildew  the  corn  on  the  stalk  — 
And  turn  new  milk  to  water  and  chalk, — 
Blight  apples  —  and  give  the  chickens  the  pip  — 
And  cramp  the  stomach  —  and  cripple  the  hip  — 
And  waste  the  body  —  and  addle  the  eggs  — 
And  give  a  baby  bandy  legs  : 
Though  in  common  belief  a  Witch's  curse 
Involves  all  these  horrible  things  and  wol^e  — 
As  ignorant  bumpkins  all  profess  — 
No  bumpkin  makes  a  poke  the  less 
At  the  back  or  ribs  of  old  Eleanor  S. ! 

As  if  she  were  only  a  sack  of  barley ; 
Or  gives  her  credit  for  greater  might 
Than  the  powers  of  darkness  confer  at  night 

On  that  other  old  woman,  the  parish  Charley; 


A   TALE    OF   A   TRUMPET. 


331 


Ay,  now  's  the  time  for  a  Witch  to  call 

On  her  imps  and  sucklings  one  and  all  — 

Newes,  Pjewacket,  or  Peek  in  the  Crown, 

(As  Matthew  Hopkins  has  handed  them  down) 

Dick,  and  Willet,  and  Sugar-and-Sack, 

Greedy  Grizel,  Jarmara  the  Black, 

Vinegar  Tom  and  the  rest  of  the  pack  — 

Ay,  now  *s  the  nick  for  her  friend  Old  Harry 

To  come  '  •  with  his  tail " "  like  the  bold  Glengarry, 

And  drive  her  foes  from  their  savage  job 

As  a  mad  Black  Bullock  would  scatter  a  mob  :  — 

But  no  such  matter  is  down  in  the  bond ; 
And  spite  of  her  cries  that  never  cease, 
But  scare  the  ducks  and  astonish  the  geese, 

The  dame  is  di-agged  to  the  fatal  pond  ! 

And  now  they  come  to  the  water's  brim  — 

And  in  they  bundle  her  —  sink  or  swim ; 

Though  it's  twenty  to  one  that  the  wretch  must  drown, 

With  twenty  sticks  to  hold  her  down ; 

Including  the  help  to  the  self-same  end. 

Which  a  travelling  pedler  stops  to  lend. 

A  pedler  !  —  Yes  !  —  The  same  !  —  the  same  ! 

Who  sold  the  horn  to  the  drowning  dame ! 

And  now  is  foremost  amid  the  stii'. 

With  a  token  only  revealed  to  her ; 

A  token  that  makes  her  shudder  and  shriek, 

And  point  with  her  finger,  and  strive  to  speak  — 

But  before  she  can  utter  the  name  of  the  Devil, 

Her  head  is  under  the  water  level ! 


ittoral. 

There  are  folks  about  town — to  name  no  names  — 
Who  much  resemble  that  deafest  of  dames  ; 


332 


NO. 


And  over  their  tea,  and  muffing,  and  crumpets, 
Circulate  many  a  scandalous  word, 
And  whisper  tales  they  could  only  have  heard 

Through  some  such  Diabolical  Trumpets  ! 


NO! 

No  sun  —  no  moon  ! 

No  morn  —  no  noon  — 
No  dawn  —  no  dusk  —  no  proper  time  of  day  — 

No  sky  —  no  earthly  view  — 

No  distance  looking  blue  — 
No  road  —  no  street  —  no  "t'other  side  the  way  "- 

No  end  to  any  Row  — 

No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go  — 

No  top  to  any  steeple  — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people  — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em  — 

No  knowing  'em ! 
No  travelling  at  all  —  no  locomotion. 
No  inkling  of  the  way  —  no  notion  — 

"  No  go  " —  by  land  or  ocean  — 

No  mail  —  no  post  — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast  — 
No  park  —  no  ring  —  no  afternoon  gentility  — 

No  company  —  no  nobility  — 
No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 

No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member  — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 

November  ! 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


Alack  !  't  is  melancholy  theme  to  think 
How  Learning  doth  in  rugged  states  abide, 
And,  like  her  bashful  owl,  obscurely  blink, 
In  pensive  glooms  and  corners,  scarcely  spied ; 
Not,  as  in  Founders'  Halls  and  domes  of  pride, 
Served  with  grave  homage,  like  a  tragic  queen, 
■  But  with  one  lonely  priest  compelled  to  hide, 
In  midst  of  foggy  moors  and  mosses  green, 
In  that  clay  cabin  hight  the  College  of  Kilreen  ! 

This  college  looketh  South  and  "West  alsoe, 
Because  it  hath  a  cast  in  windows  twain ; 
Crazy  and  cracked  they  be,  and  wind  doth  blow 
Thorough  transparent  holes  in  every  pane. 
Which  Dan,  with  many  paines,  makes  whole  again 
With  nether  garments,  which  his  thrift  doth  teach 
To  stand  for  glass,  like  pronouns,  and  when  rain 
Stormeth,  he  puts,  '-once  more  unto  the  breach," 
Outside  and  in,  though  broke,  yet  so  he  mendeth  each. 

And  in  the  midst  a  little  door  there  is, 
Whereon  a  board  that  doth  congratulate 
With  painted  letters,  red  as  blood  I  wis. 
Thus  written,  "erjilOrtu  tafeen  in  to  aSatc;" 
And  oft,  indeed,  the  inward  of  that  gate. 
Most  ventriloque,  doth  utter  tender  squeak, 
And  moans  of  infants  that  bemoan  then*  flite, 
In  midst  of  sounds  of  Latin,  French,  and  Greek, 
Which,  all  i'  the  Irish  tongue,  he  teacheth  them  to  speak. 


334 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


For  some  are  meant  to  right  illegal  wrongs, 
And  some  for  Doctors  of  Divinitie, 
Whom  he  doth  teach  to  murder  the  dead  tongues, 
And  soe  win  academical  degree  ; 
But  some  are  bred  for  service  of  the  sea, 
Howbeit,  their  store  of  learning  is  but  small, 
For  mickle  waste  he  counteth  it  would  be 
To  stock  a  head  with  bookish  wares  at  all. 
Only  to  be  knocked  off  by  ruthless  cannon-ball. 

Six  babes  he  sways, —  some  little  and  some  big, 
Divided  into  classes  six ;  —  alsoe, 
He  keeps  a  parlor  boarder  of  a  pig. 
That  in  the  college  fareth  to  and  fro. 
And  picketh  up  the  urchins'  crumbs  below, — 
And  eke  the  learned  rudiments  they  scan, 
And  thus  his  A,  B,  C,  doth  wisely  know, — 
Hereafter  to  be  shown  in  caravan. 
And  raise  the  wonderment  of  many  a  learned  man. 

Alsoe,  he  schools  some  tame  familiar  fowls, 
Whereof,  above  his  head,  some  two  or  three 
Sit  darkly  squatting,  like  Minerva's  owls. 
But  on  the  branches  of  no  living  tree, 
And  overlook  the  learned  family ; 
While,  sometimes,  Partlet,  from  her  gloomy  perch, 
Drops  feather  on  the  nose  of  Dominie, 
Meanwhile,  with  serious  eye,  he  makes  research 
In  leaves  of  that  sour  tree  of  knowledge  —  now  a  birch 

No  chair  he  hath,  the  awful  pedagogue. 
Such  as  would  magisterial  hams  imbed. 
But  sitteth  lowly  on  a  beechen  log, 
Secure  in  high  authority  and  dread : 
Large,  as  a  dome  for  learning,  seems  his  head 
And  hke  Apollo's,  all  beset  with  rays, 


THE   IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 

Because  his  locks  are  sc  unkempt  and  red, 
And  stand  abroad  in  many  several  ways :  — 
No  laurel  crown  he  wears,  howbeit  his  cap  is  baize, 

And,  underneath,  a  pair  of  shaggy  brows 
O'erhang  as  many  eyes  of  gizzard  hue, 
That  inward  giblet  of  a  fowl,  which  shows 
A  mongrel  tint,  that  is  ne  brow  no  blue  ; 
His  nose. —  it  is  a  coral  to  the  view  ; 
Well  nourished  with  Pierian  potheen,— 
For  much  he  loves  his  native  mountain  dew ;  — 
But  to  depict  the  dye  would  lack,  I  ween, 
A  bottle-red,  in  terms,  as  well  as  bottle-green. 

As  for  his  coat,  't  is  such  a  jerkin  short 
As  Spenser  had,  ere  he  composed  his  Tales ; 
But  underneath  he  hath  no  vest,  nor  aught. 
So  that  the  wind  his  airy  breast  assails  ; 
Below,  he  wears  the  nether  garb  of  males. 
Of  crimson  plush,  but  non-plushed  at  the  knee  :  - 
Thence  further  down  the  native  red  prevails. 
Of  his  own  naked  fleecy  hosierie  :  — 
Two  sandals,  without  soles,  complete  his  cap-a-pie. 

Nathless,  for  dignity,  he  now  doth  lap 
His  function  in  a  magisterial  gown. 
That  shows  more  countries  in  it  than  a  map, — 
Blue  tinct,  and  red,  and  green,  and  russet  brown. 
Besides  some  blots,  standing  for  country-town  ; 
And  eke  some  rents,  for  streams  and  rivers  wide ; 
But,  sometimes,  bashful  when  he  looks  adown, 
He  turns  the  garment  of  the  other  side. 
Hopeful  that  so  the  holes  may  never  be  espied  ! 

And  soe  he  sits,  amidst  the  little  pack, 
That  look  for  shady  or  for  sunny  noon, 


335 


536 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


Within  his  visage,  like  an  almanack, — 
His  quiet  smile  foretelling  gracious  boon : 
But  when  his  mouth  droops  clown,  like  rainy  moon, 
With  horrid  chill  each  little  heart  unwarms, 
Knowing  that  infant  showers  will  follow  soon, 
And  with  forebodings  of  near  wrath  and  storms 
The  J  sit,  like  timid  hares,  all  trembling  on  their  forms, 

Ah  !  luckless  wight,  who  cannot  then  repeat 
"Corduroy  Colloquy,"— or  "  Ki,  K»,  Kod,"— 
Full  soon  his  tears  shall  make  his  turfy  seat 
More  sodden,  though  already  made  of  sod. 
For  Dan  shall  whip  him  with  the  word  of  God, — 
Severe  by  rule,  and  not  by  nature  mild. 
He  never  spoils  the  child  and  spares  the  rod. 
But  spoils  the  rod  and  never  spares  the  child, 
And  soe  with  holy  rule  deems  he  is  reconciled. 

But  surely  the  just  sky  will  never  wink 
At  men  who  take  delight  in  childish  throe, 
And  stripe  the  nether-urchin  like  a  pink 
Or  tender  hyacinth,  inscribed  with  woe  ; 
Such  bloody  pedagogues,  when  they  shall  know, 
By  useless  birches,  that  forlorn  recess, 
Which  is  no  holiday,  in  Pit  below, 
Will  hell  not  seem  designed  for  their  distress, — 
A  melancholy  place,  that  is  all  bottomlesse  7 

Yet  would  the  Muse  not  chide  the  wholesome  use 

Of  needful  disciphne,  in  due  degree. 

Devoid  of  sway,  what  wrongs  will  time  produce  ! 

Whene'er  the  twig  untrained  grows  up  a  tree, 

This  shall  a  Carder,  that  a  Whiteboy  be. 

Ferocious  leaders  of  atrocious  bands. 

And  Learning's  help  be  used  for  infamie, 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


33T 


By  lawless  clerks,  that,  with  their  bloody  hands, 
In  murdered  English  write  Rock"s  murderous  commands 

But,  ah  !  what  shrilly  cry  doth  now  alarm 
The  sooty  fowls  that  dozed  upon  the  beam, 
All  sudden  fluttering  from  the  brandished  arm 
And  cajskling  chorus  with  the  human  scream ; 
Meanwhile  the  scourge  plies  that  unkindly  seam 
In  Phelim's  brogues,  which  bares  his  naked  skin, 
Like  traitor  gap  in  Avarlike  fort,  I  deem, 
That  falsely  lets  the  fierce  besieger  in. 
Nor  seeks  the  pedagogue  by  other  course  to  win. 

No  parent  dear  he  hath  to  heed  his  cries  ;  — 
Alas  !  his  pai-ent  dear  is  far  aloof. 
And  deep  in  Seven-Dial  cellar  lies, 
Killed  by  kind  cudgel-play,  or  gin  of  proof, 
Or  climbeth,  catwise,  on  some  London  roof. 
Singing,  perchance,  a  lay  of  Erin's  Isle, 
Or,  whilst  he  labors,  weaves  a  fancy-woof, 
Dreaming  he  sees  his  home, —  his  Phelim  smile ; 
Ah,  me  !  that  luckless  imp,  who  weepeth  all  the  while  ! 

Ah  !  who  can  paint  that  hard  and  heavy  time, 
When  first  the  scholar  lists  in  Learning's  train. 
And  mounts  her  rugged  steep  enforced  to  climb, 
Like  sooty  imp,  by  sharp  posterior  pain. 
From  bloody  twig,  and  eke  that  Indian  cane, 
Wherein,  alas  !  no  sugared  juices  dwell  7 
For  this,  the  while  one  stripling's  sluices  drain. 
Another  weepeth  over  chillblains  fell. 
Always  upon  the  heel,  yet  never  to  be  well ! 

Anon  a  third,  for  his  delicious  root, 
Late  ravished  from  his  tooth  by  elder  chit, 
29 


-=zr=:^.\ 


338 


THE   IRISH   SCHOOLMASTER. 


r 


So  soon  is  human  violence  afoot, 
So  hardly  is  the  harmless  biter  bit ! 
Meanwhile,  the  tyrant,  with  untimely  wit 
And  mouthing  face,  derides  the  small  one's  moan, 
Who,  all  lamenting  for  his  loss,  doth  sit. 
Alack, — mischance  comes  seldomtimes  alone. 
But  aye  the  worried  dog  must  rue  more  curs  than  one 

For,  lo  !  the  pedagogue,  with  sudden  drub, 
Smites  his  scald  head,  that  is  already  sore, — 
Superfluous  wound, —  such  is  Misfortune's  rub  ! 
Who  straight  makes  answer  with  redoubled  roar, 
And  sheds  salt  tears  twice  faster  than  before, 
That  still  with  backward  fist  he  strives  to  dry ; 
Washing  with  brackish  moisture,  o'er  and  o'er, 
His  muddy  cheek,  that  grows  more-  foul  thereby, 
Till  all  his  rainy  face  looks  grim  as  rainy  sky. 

So  Dan,  by  dint  of  noise,  obtains  a  peace, 
And  with  his  natural  untender  knack, 
By  new  distress,  bids  former  grievance  cease. 
Like  tears  dried  up  with  rugged  huckaback. 
That  sets  the  mournful  visage  all  awrack ; 
Yet  soon  the  childish  countenance  will  shine 
Even  as  thorough  storms  the  soonest  slack, 
For  grief  and  beef  in  adverse  ways  incline, 
This  keeps,  and  that  decays,  when  duly  soaked  in  brine. 

Now,  all  is  hushed,  and,  with  a  look  profound. 
The  Dominie  lays  ope  the  learned  page  ; 
(So  be  it  called)  although  he  doth  expound 
Without  a  book,  both  Greek  and  Latin  sage ; 
Now  telleth  he  of  Rome's  rude  infant  age, 
How  Romulus  was  bred  in  savage  wood, 
By  wet-nurse  wolf,  devoid  of  wolfish  rage, 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


339 


And  laid  foundation-stone  of  walls  of  mud, 
But  watered  it,  alas  !  with  warm  fraternal  blood. 

Anon,  be  turns  to  that  Homeric  war, 
How  Troy  was  sieged  like  Londonderry  town ; 
And  stout  Acbilles,  at  his  jaunting-car. 
Dragged  mighty  Hector  with  a  bloody  crown : 
And  eke  the  bard,  that  sung  of  their  renown, 
In  garb  of  Greece  most  beggar-like  and  torn, 
He  paints,  with  colly,  wandering  up  and  down  : 
Because,  at  once,  in  seven  cities  born ; 
And  so.  of  parish  rights,  was,  all  his  days,  forlorn. 

Anon,  through  old  Mythology  he  goes. 
Of  gods  defunct,  and  all  their  pedigrees, 
But  shuns  their  scandalous  amours,  and  shows 
How  Plato  wise,  and  clear-eyed  Socrates, 
Confessed  not  to  those  heathen  he's  and  she's ; 
But  through  the  clouds  of  the  Olympic  cope 
Beheld  St.  Peter  with  his  holy  keys. 
And  owned  their  love  was  naught,  and  bowed  to  Pope, 
Whilst  all  their  purblind  race  in  Pagan  mist  did  grope. 

From  such  quaint  themes  he  turns,  at  last,  aside, 
To  new  philosophies,  that  still  are  green. 
And  shows  what  railroads  have  been  tracked  to  guide 
The  wheels  of  great  political  machine  ; 
If  English  corn  should  grow  abroad,  I  ween, 
And  gold  be  made  of  gold,  or  paper  sheet ; 
How  many  pigs  be  born  to  each  spalpeen ; 
And,  ah  !  how  man  shall  thrive  beyond  his  meat, — 
With  twenty  souls  alive  to  one  square  sod  of  peat ! 

Here  he  makes  end ;  and  all  the  fry  of  youth. 
That  stood  around  with  serious  look  intense, 


340 


THE    IRISH    SCHOOLMASTER. 


Close  up  again  their  gaping  eyes  and  mouth, 
Which  thej  had  opened  to  his  eloquence, 
As  if  their  hearing  were  a  three-fold  sense. 
But  now  the  current  of  his  words  is  done, 
And  whether  any  fruits  shall  spring  from  thence, 
In  future  time,  with  any  mother's  son  ! 
It  is  a  thing,  God  wot !  that  can  be  told  by  none. 

Now  by  the  creeping  shadows  of  the  noon, 
The  hour  is  come  to  lay  aside  their  lore : 
The  cheerful  pedagogue  perceives  it  soon. 
And  cries  "  Begone  !  "   unto  the  imps, —  and  four 
Snatch  their  two  hats  and  struggle  for  the  door, 
Like  ardent  spirits  vented  from  a  cask. 
All  blithe  and  boisterous, —  but  leave  two  more. 
With  Reading  made  Uneasy  for  a  task. 
To  weep,  whilst  all  their  mates  in  merry  sunshine  bask. 

Like  sportive  Elfins,  on  the  verdant  sod. 
With  tender  moss  so  sleekly  overgrown, 
That  doth  not  hurt,  but  kiss,  the  sole  unshod, 
So  soothly  kind  is  Erin  to  her  own  ! 
And  one.  at  Hare  and  Hound,  plays  all  alone, — 
For  Phelim  's  gone  to  tend  his  step-dame"  s  cow ; 
Ah  !  Phelim's  step-dame  is  a  cankered  crone  ! 
Whilst  other  twain  play  at  an  Irish  row. 
And,  with  shillelah  small,  break  one  another's  brow' 

But  careful  Dominie,  with  ceaseless  thrift. 
Now  changeth  ferula  for  rural  hoe ; 
But,  first  of  all,  with  tender  hand  doth  sliift 
His  college  gown,  because  of  solar  glow. 
And  hangs  it  on  a  bush,  to  scare  the  crow  : 
Meanwliile,  he  plants  in  earth  the  dappled  bean, 
Or  trains  the  young  potatoes  all  a-row, 


EriGRAMS.  341 

Or  plucks  the  fragrant  leek  for  pottage  green. 
With  that  crisp  curly  herb,  called  Kale  in  Aberdeen. 

And  so  he  wisely  spends  the  fruitful  hours, 
Linked  each  to  each  bj  labor,  like  a  bee, 
Or  rules  in  Learning's  hall,  or  trims  her  bowers  ;  — 
Would  there  were  many  more  such  wights  as  he, 
To  sway  each  capital  academic 
Of  Cam  and  Isis ;  for,  alack  !  at  each 
There  dwells  I  wot  some  di-onish  Dominie, 
That  does  no  garden  work,  nor  yet  doth  teach. 
But  wears  a  flom-y  head,  and  talks  in  flowery  speech  ! 


EPIGRAMS. 

ON   THE    ART-UNIONS. 


That  picture-raffles  will  conduce  to  nourish 
Design,  or  cause  good  Coloring  to  flourish, 
Admits  of  logic-chopping  and  wise  sawing, 
But  surely  Lotteries  encourage  Drawing  ! 


THE    SUPERIORITY    OF   MACHINERY. 

A  MECHANIC  his  labor  will  often  discard 

If  the  rate  of  his  pay  he  dislikes  : 
But  a  clock  —  and  its  case  is  uncommonly  hard  ■ 

Will  continue  to  work  though  it  strikes. 
39* 


THE    FORGE: 

A   ROIIAXCE   CF    THE   IROX   AGE. 


"  Who  's  here,  beside  foul  weather  ?"  —  King  Lear. 

"  Mine  enemy's  dog,  though  he  had  bit  me. 

Should  have  stood  that  night  against  my  fire." —  Coudelia. 


PAET    I. 
LiEE  a  dead  man  gone  to  his  shroud, 
The  sun  has  sunk  in  a  coppery  cloud, 
And  the  wind  is  rising  squally  and  loud 

With  many  a  stormy  token, — 
Playing  a  wild  funereal  air. 
Through  the  branches  bleak,  bereaved,  and  bare. 
To  the  dead  leaves  dancing  here  and  there  — 

In  short,  if  the  truth  were  spoken, 
It 's  an  ugly  one  for  anywhere, 

But  an  awful  night  for  the  Brocken. 

For,  0  !  to  stop 
On  that  mountain  top, 
After  the  dews  of  evening  drop, 

Is  always  a  dreary  frolic  — 
Then  what  must  it  be  when  Xature  groans, 
And  the  very  mountain  murmurs  and  moans 

As  if  it  writhed  with  the  colic  — 
With  other  strange  supernatural  tones, 
From  wood;  and  water,  and  echoing  stones, 
Not  to  forget  unburied  bones  — 

In  a  region  so  diabolic  ! 
A  place  where  he  whom  we  call  Old  Scratch, 
By  help  of  his  Witches  —  a  precious  batch  — 


THE    FOllGE.  343 

Gives  midnight  concerts  and  sermons, 
In  a  pulpit  and  orchestra  built  to  match^ 
A  plot  right  worthy  of  him  to  hatch, 
And  well  adapted,  he  knows,  to  catch 

The  musical,  mystical  Germans  ! 

However,  it 's  quite 
As  wild  a  night 
As  ever  was  known  on  that  sinister  height 

Since  the  Demon-Dance  was  morriced  — 
The  earth  is  dark,  and  the  sky  is  scowling, 
And  the  blast  through  the  pines  is  howling  and  growling. 
As  if  a  thousand  wolves  were  prowling 
About  in  the  old  Black  Forest  ! 

Madly,  sadly,  the  tempest  raves 

Through  the  narrow  guUeys  and  hollow  caves, 

And  bursts  on  the  rocks  in  windy  waves. 

Like  the  Ijillows  that  roar 

On  a  gusty  shore 
Mourning  over  the  mariners'  graves  — 
Nay,  more  like  a  frantic  lamentation 

From  a  howling  set 

Of  demons  met 
To  wake  a  dead  relation. 

Badly,  madly,  the  vapors  fly 
Over  the  dark  distracted  sky. 

At  a  pace  that  no  pen  can  paint ! 
Black  and  vague  like  the  shadows  of  dreams, 
Scudding  over  the  moon  that  seems 
Shorn  of  half  her  usual  beams. 

As  pale  as  if  she  would  faint ! 

The  lightning  flashes. 
The  thunder  crashes, 


344 


THE    FORGE. 


The  trees  encounter  with  horrible  clashes, 
While  rolling  up  from  marish  and  bog, 
Rank  and  rich, 
As  from  Stygian  ditch, 
Rises  a  foul  sulphureous  fog, 
Hinting  that  Satan  himself  is  agog, — 
But,  leanng  at  once  this  heroical  pitch, 
The  night  is  a  very  bad  night,  in  which 
You  would  n't  turn  out  a  dog. 

Yet  ONE  there  is  abroad  in  the  storm, 

And  whenever  by  chance 

The  moon  gets  a  glance, 
She  spies  the  traveller's  lonely  form, 
Walking,  leaping,  striding  along. 
As  none  can  do  but  the  super-strong  ; 
And  flapping  his  arms  to  keep  him  warm, 
For  the  breeze  from  the  north  is  a  regular  starver, 

And,  to  tell  the  truth, 

More  keen,  in  sooth, 
And  cutting  than  any  German  carver  ! 

However,  no  time  it  is  to  lag  ; 
And  on  he  scrambles  from  crag  to  crag, 
Like  one  determined  never  to  flag  — 
Now  weathers  a  block 
Of  jutting  rock. 
With  hardly  room  for  a  toe  to  wag  ; 
But  holding  on  by  a  timber-snag, 
That  looks  like  the  arm  of  a  friendly  hag  • 

Then  stooping  under  a  drooping  bough. 
Or  leaping  over  some  horrid  chasm. 
Enough  to  give  any  heart  a  spasm ! 

And  sinking  down  a  precipice  now, 
Keeping  his  feet  the  Deuce  knows  how, 


THE    FORGE.  345 

In  spots  ■whence  all  creatures  would  keep  aloof, 

Except  the  goat,  with  his  cloven  hoof, 

Who  clings  to  the  shallowest  ledge  as  if 

He  grew  like  the  weed  on  the  face  of  the  cliff ! 

So  down,  still  down,  the  traveller  goes. 

Safe  as  the  chamois  amid  his  snows, 

Though  fiercer  than  ever  the  hurricane  blows, 

And  round  him  eddj,  "with  whirl  and  whizz, 
Tornadoes  of  hail,  and  sleet,  and  rain. 
Enough  to  bewilder  a  weaker  brain. 

Or  blanch  any  other  visage  than  his. 
Which,  spite  of  lightning,  thunder,  and  hail. 
The  blinding  sleet,  and  the  freezing  gale, 
And  the  horrid  abyss. 
If  his  foot  should  miss. 
Instead  of  tending  at  all  to  pale. 
Like  cheeks  that  feel  the  chill  of  affright  — 
Remains  —  the  very  reverse  of  white  ! 

His  heart  is  granite  —  his  iron  nerve 

Feels  no  convulsive  twitches  ; 
And  as  to  his  foot,  it  does  not  swerve. 
Though  the  screech-owls  are  flitting  about  him  that  serve 

For  parrots  to  Brocken  Witches  ! 

Nay,  full  in  his  very  path  he  spies 

The  gleam  of  the  w^ehr  wolf's  horrid  eyes ; 

But  if  his  members  quiver  — 
It  is  not  for  that  —  no,  it  is  not  for  that  — 
Nor  rat,  nor  cat,  as  black  as  your  hat. 
Nor  the  snake  that  hissed,  nor  the  toad  that  spat, 
Nor  glimmering  candles  of  dead  men's  fat. 
Nor  even  the  flap  of  the  vampire  bat. 
No  anserine  skin  would  rise  thereat. 

It 's  the  cold  that  makes  Him  shiver  ! 


346  THE   FORGE. 

So  down,  still  down,  through  gully  and  glen, 
Never  trodden  by  foot  of  men, 
Past  the  eagle's  nest,  and  the  she-wolf's  den, 
Never  caring  a  jot  how  steep 
Or  how  narrow  the  track  he  has  to  keep, 
Or  how  wide  and  deep 
An  abyss  to  leap. 
Or  what  may  fly,  or  walk,  or  creep, 
Down  he  hurries  through  darkness  and  storm, 
Flapping  his  arms  to  keep  him  warm  — 
Till,  threading  many  a  pass  abhorrent, 

At  last  he  reaches  the  mountain  gorge. 
And  takes  a  path  along  by  a  torrent  — 
The  very  identical  path,  by  St.  George  ! 
Down  which  young  Fridolin  went  to  the  Forge, 
With  a  message  meant  for  his  own  death-warrant ! 

Young  Fridolin  !  young  Fridolin  ! 
So  fi'ee  from  sauce,  and  sloth,  and  sin. 
The  best  of  pages. 
Whatever  their  ages. 
Since  first  that  singular  fashion  came  in  — 
Not  he  like  those  modern  and  idle  young  gluttons 
With  little  jackets,  so  smart  and  spruce, 
Of  Lincoln  green,  sky-blue,  or  puce  — 
And  a  little  gold-lace  you  may  introduce  -  - 
Very  showy,  but  as  for  use, 
Not  worth  so  many  buttons  ! 

Young  Fridolin  !  young  Fridolin  ! 

Of  his  duty  so  true  a  fulfiller  — 
But  here  we  need  no  further  go, 
For  whoever  desires  the  tale  to  know 

May  read  it  all  in  Schiller. 

Faster  now  the  traveller  speeds, 

Whither  his  guiding  beacon  leads, 


THE    FORGE.  347 

For  by  yonder  glare 
In  the  murky  air, 
He  knows  that  the  Eisen  Hutte  is  there  ! 

With  its  sooty  Cyclops,  savage  and  grim, 
Hosts  a  guest  had  better  forbear, 
Whose  thoughts  are  set  upon  dainty  fare  — 
But,  stiff  with  cold  in  every  limb. 
The  furnace  fire  is  the  bait  for  Him  ! 

Faster  and  faster  still  he  goes. 

Whilst  redder  and  redder  the  welkin  glows, 

And  the  lowest  clouds  that  scud  in  the  sky 

Get  crimson  fringes  in  flitting  by. 

Till,  lo  !  amid  the  lurid  light. 
The  darkest  object  intensely  dark. 

Just  where  the  bright  is  intensely  bright, 

The  Forge,  the  Forge  itself  is  in  sight. 

Like  the  pitch-black  hull  of  a  burning  bark, 
With  volleying  smoke,  and  many  a  spark. 

Vomiting  fire,  red,  yellow,  and  white ! 

Restless,  quivering  tongues  of  flame  ! 
Heavenward  striving  still  to  go, 
While  others,  reversed  in  the  stream  below. 
Seem  seeking  a  place  we  will  not  name. 
But  well  that  traveller  knows  the  same, 
Who  stops  and  stands. 
So  rubbing  his  hands, 
And  snuffing  the  rare 
Perfumes  in  the  air. 
For  old  familiar  odors  are  there, 
And  then  direct  by  the  shortest  cut. 
Like  Alpine  marmot,  whom  neither  rut, 
Rivers,  rocks,  nor  thickets  rebut, 
Makes  his  way  to  the  blazing  hut ! 


348 


THE  FORGE. 


PART  U. 

Idly  watching  the  farnace-flames, 
The  men  of  the  stithy- 
Are  in  their  smithy, 
Brutal  monsters,  with  bulky  frames, 
Beings  Humanity  scarcely  claims, 
But  hybrids  rather  of  demon  race, 
Unblessed  by  the  holy  rite  of  grace, 
Who  never  had  gone  by  Christian  names, 
Mark,  or  Matthew,  Peter,  or  James  — 
Naked,  foul,  unshorn,  unkempt, 
From  touch  of  natural  shame  exempt, 
Things  of  which  Delirium  has  di-eamt  — 
But  wherefore  dwell  on  these  verbal  sketches, 
When  traced  with  frightful  truth  and  vigor, 
Costume,  attitude,  face,  and  figure, 
Retsch  has  drawn  the  very  wretches  ! 

However,  there  they  lounge  about, 
The  grim,  gigantic  fellows, 

Hardly  hearing  the  storm  without, 
That  makes  so  very  dreadful  a  rout, 
For  the  constant  roar 
From  the  furnace  door, 
And  the  blast  of  the  monstrous  bellows  ' 

0,  what  a  scene 
That  Forge  had  been 
For  Salvator  Rosa's  study  ! 
With  wall,  and  beam,  and  post,  and  pin, 
And  those  ruffianly  creatures,  like  Shapes  of  Sin  ! 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  rusty  skin  ; 
Illumed  by  a  light  so  ruddy. 
The  hut,  and  whatever  there  is  therein, 
Looks  either  red-hot  or  bloody  ! 


THE   FORGE.  349 

And,  0  !  to  hear  the  frequent  burst 
Of  strange  extravagant  laughter, 
Harsh  and  hoarse. 
And  resounding  perforce 
From  echoing  roof  and  rafter  ! 
Though  curses,  the  worst 
That  ever  were  curst. 
And  threats  that  Cain  invented  the  first, 
Come  growling  the  instant  after  ! 

But  again  the  livelier  peal  is  rung, 

For  the  Smith-hight  Salamander, 
In  the  jargon  of  some  Titanic  tongue, 
Elsewhere  never  said  or  sung, 
With  the  voice  of  a  Stentor  in  joke  has  flung 
Some  cumbrous  sort 
Of  sledge-hammer  retort 
At  Red-Beard,  the  crew's  commander. 

Some  frightful  jest  —  who  knows  how  wild, 
Or  obscene,  from  a  monster  so  defiled. 
And  a  horrible  mouth,  of  such  extent. 
From  flapping  ear  to  ear  it  went. 
And  showed  such  tusks  whenever  it  smiled  — 
The  very  mouth  to  devour  a  child ! 

But  fair  or  foul,  the  jest  gives  birth 
To  another  bellow  of  demon  mirth, 

That  far  outroars  the  weather. 
As  if  all  the  hyenas  that  prowl  the  earth 

Had  clubbed  their  laughs  too;ether  ! 

And,  lo  !  in  the  middle  of  all  the  din. 
Not  seeming  to  care  a  single  pin. 

For  a  prospect  so  volcanic, 
A  stranger  steps  abruptly  in, 
30 


350 


THE   FOKGE. 


Of  an  aspect  rather  Satanic  : 
And  he  looks,  with  a  grin,  at  those  Cyclops  grim 
Who  stare  and  grin  again  at  him 

With  wondrous  little  panic. 

Then  up  to  the  furnace  the  stranger  goes, 
Eager  to  thaw  his  ears  and  nose. 

And  warm  his  frozen  fingers  and  toes  — 
While  each  succeeding  minute 
Hotter  and  hotter  the  smithy  grows, 
And  seems  to  declare, 
By  a  fiercer  glare, 
On  wall,  roof,  floor,  and  everywhere. 
It  knows  the  Devil  is  in  it ! 

Still  not  a  word 

Is  uttered  or  heard. 
But  the  beetle-browed  foreman  nods  and  winks, 
Much  as  a  shaggy  old  lion  blinks. 

And  makes  a  shift 

To  impart  his  drift 
To  a  smoky  brother,  who,  joining  the  links, 
Hints  to  a  third  the  thing  he  thinks ; 

And  whatever  it  be. 

They  all  agree 

In  smiling  with  faces  full  of  glee, 
As  if  about  to  enjoy  high  jinks. 

What  sort  of  tricks  they  mean  to  play 
By  way  of  diversion,  who  can  say, 
Of  such  ferocious  and  barbarous  folk. 
Who  chuckled,  indeed,  and  never  spoke 
Of  burning  Robert  the  Jager  to  coke. 
Except  as  a  capital  practical  joke  ! 

Who  never  thought  of  Mercy,  or  heard  her, 
Or  any  gentle  emotion  felt ; 


THE   FORGE. 


351 


But,  hard  as  the  iron  they  had  to  melt, 

Sported  with  Danger  and  romped  with  Murder ! 

Meanwhile  the  stranger, — 
The  Brocken  Ranger, 
Besides  another  and  hotter  post, 
That  renders  him  not  averse  to  a  roast, — 
Creeping  into  the  furnace  almost, 
Has  made  himself  as  warm  as  a  toast  — 

\Yhen,  unsuspicious  of  any  danger, 
And  least  of  all  of  any  such  maggot 
As  treating  his  body  like  a  fagot, 
All  at  once  he  is  seized  and  shoven 
In  pastime  cruel, 
Like  so  much  fuel, 
Headlong  into  the  blazing  oven  ! 

In  he  goes  !  with  a  frightful  shout 
Mocked  by  the  rugged  rufiianly  band, 
As  round  the  furnace  mouth  they  stand, 
Bar,  and  shovel,  and  ladle  in  hand, 

To  hinder  their  butt  from  crawling  out, 
Who,  making  one  fierce  attempt,  but  vain. 
Receives  such  a  blow 
From  Red-Beard's  crow 
As  crashes  the  skull  and  gashes  the  brain,  ^ 
xVnd  blind,  and  dizzy,  and  stunned  with  pain, 

With  merely  an  interjectional  0  ! 
Back  he  rolls  in  the  flames  again. 
"  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ho  !  Ho  !  "    That  second  fall 
Seems  the  very  best  joke  of  all, 
To  judge  by  the  roar. 
Twice  as  loud  as  before. 
That  fills  the  hut  from  the  roof  to  the  floor, 
And  flies  a  league  or  two  out.  of  the  door. 


552 


THE   FORGE. 


Up  the  mountain  and  over  the  moor  — 
But  scarcely  the  jollj  echoes  they  wake 
Have  well  begun 
To  take  up  the  fun, 
Ere  the  shaggy  felons  have  cause  to  quake, 

And  begin  to  feel  that  the  deed  they  have  done, 
Instead  of  being  a  pleasant  one, 
Was  a  very  great  error  —  and  no  mistake. 

For  why  7  —  in  lieu 
Of  its  former  hue, 
So  natural,  warm,  and  florid. 
The  furnace  burns  of  brimstone  blue, 
And  instead  of  the  couleiir  de  rose  it  threw, 
With  a  cooler  reflection, —  justly  due  — 
Exhibits  each  of  the  Pagan  crew. 

Livid,  ghastly  and  horrid  ! 
But  vainly  they  close  their  guilty  eyes 

Against  prophetic  fears ; 
Or  with  hard  and  homy  palms  devise 
To  dam  their  enormous  ears  — 

There  are  sounds  in  the  air, 
Not  here  or  there, 
In-esistible  voices  evei'ywhere, 
No  bulwarks  can  ever  rebut. 

And  to  match  the  screams. 
Tremendous  gleams. 
Of  horrors  that  like  the  phantoms  of  dreams 

They  see  with  their  eyelids  shut ! 
For  a-wful  coveys  of  terrible  things, 
With  forked  tongues  and  venomous  stings, 
On  hagweed,  broomsticks,  and  leathern  wings, 
Are  hoverinor  round  the  hut ! 


THE    FORGE. 


353 


Shapes  !  that  within  the  focus  bright 

Of  the  Forge,  are  like  shadows  and  blots  ; 
But  further  off,  in  the  shades  of  night, 
Clothed  Viith  their  own  phosphoric  hght. 

Are  seen  in  the  darkest  spots. 
Sounds  !  that  fill  the  air  with  noises, 
Strange  and  indescribable  voices, 
From  hags,  in  a  diabolical  clatter  — 
Cats  that  spit  curses,  and  apes  that  chatter 
Scraps  of  cabalistical  matter  — 

Owls  that  screech,  and  dogs  that  yell  — 
Skeleton  hounds  that  will  never  be  fatter  — 

All  the  domestic  tribes  of  Hell, 
Shrieking  for  flesh  to  tear  and  tatter, 
Bones  to  shatter, 
And  limbs  to  scatter, — 
And  who  it  is  that  must  fui-nish  the  latter 

Those  blue-looking  men  know  well  ! 
Those  blue-looking  men  that  huddle  together. 
For  all  their  sturdy  Hmbs  and  thews, 
Their  unshorn  locks,  like  Xazarene  Jews, 
And  buffalo  beards,  and  hides  of  leather, 
Huddled  all  in  a  heap  together. 
Like  timid  lamb,  and  ewe,  and  wether, 
And  as  females  say. 
In  a  similar  way, 
Fit  for  knocking  down  with  a  feather  ! 

In  and  out,  in  and  out, 
The  gathering  goblins  hover  about, 
Every  minute  augmenting  the  rout ; 
For  like  a  spell 
The  unearthly  smell 
That  ftimes  from  the  furnace,  chimney  and  mouth, 
30* 


354 


THE   FORGE. 


Draws  them  in  —  an  infernal  legion  — 
From  East,  and  West,  and  North,  and  South, 
Like  carrion  birds  from  every  region, 

Till  not  a  yard  square 

Of  the  sickening  air 
But  has  a  Demon  or  two  for  its  share, 
Breathing  fury,  woe,  and  despair. 
Never,  never  was  such  a  sight ! 
It  beats  the  very  Walpurgis  Night, 
Displayed  in  the  Story  of  Doctor  Faustus  ; 

For  the  scene  to  describe, 

Of  the  awful  tribe. 
If  we  were  hvo  Gothes  would  quite  exhaust  us  ! 
Suffice  it,  amid  that  dreary  swarm. 
There  musters  each  foul  repulsive  form 
That  ever  a  fancy  overwarm 

Begot  in  its  worst  delirium : 
Besides  some  others  of  monstrous  size, 
Never  before  revealed  to  eyes, 
Of  the  genus  Megatherium  ! 

Meanwhile  the  demons,  filthy  and  foul, 
Gorgon,  Chimera,  Harpy,  and  Ghoul, 
Are  not  contented  to  gibber  and  howl 

As  a  dirge  for  their  late  commander  ; 
But  one  of  the  bevy  —  witch  or  wizard, 
Disguised  as  a  monstrous  flying  lizard, 

Springs  on  the  grisly  Salamander, 
Who  stoutly  fights,  and  struggles,  and  kicks, 
And  tries  the  best  of  his  wrestling  tricks, — 
No  paltry  strife. 
But  for  life,  dear  life, — 
But  the  ruthless  talons  refuse  to  unfix, 

Till,  far  beyond  a  surgical  case, 

With  starting  eyes  and  black  in  the  face, 


THE   FORGE.  355 

Down  he  tumbles  as  dead  as  bricks  ! 
A  pretty  sight  for  his  mates  to  view ! 
Those  shaggy  murderers  looking  so  blue, 
iVnd  for  him  above  all, 
Red-bearded  and  tall, 
With  whom,  at  that  very  particular  nick, 
There  is  such  an  unlucky  crow  to  pick, 
As  the  one  of  iron  that  did  the  trick 

In  a  recent  bloody  aifair  — 
No  wonder,  feeling  a  little  sick, 
With  pulses  beating  uncommonly  quick, 
And  breath  he  never  found  so  thick, 

He  longs  for  the  open  air  ! 

Three  paces,  or  four, 
And  he  gains  the  door ; 
But  ere  he  accomplishes  one, 
The  sound  of  a  blow  comes,  heavy  and  dull. 
And,  clasping  his  fingers  round  his  skull, 
However  the  deed  was  done. 

That  gave  him  that  florid 
Red  gash  on  the  forehead  — 
With  a  roll  of  the  eyeballs  perfectly  horrid. 
There  's  a  tremulous  quiver, 
The  last  death-shiver, 
And  Red-Beard's  coui'se  is  run  ! 

Halloo !  Halloo  ! 
They  have  done  for  two  ! 
But  a  heavyish  job  remains  to  do  ! 

For  yonder,  sledge  and  shovel  in  hand. 
Like  elder  Sons  of  Giant  Despair, 

A  couple  of  Cyclops  make  a  stand, 
And,  fiercely  hammering  here  and  there, 
Keep  at  bay  the  Powers  of  Air  — 


356:  THE    FORaE. 

But  desperation  is  all  in  vain  !  — 

Thej  faint  —  tliej  choke, 

For  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Is  poisoning  heart,  and  lung,  and  brain  ; 
They  reel,  thej  sink,  they  gasp,  they  smother  , 
One  for  a  moment  survives  his  brother, 
Then  rolls  a  corpse  across  the  other  ! 

Hulloo!  Hulloo! 

And  Hullabaloo  ! 
There  is  only  one  more  thing  to  do  — 
And,  seized  by  beak,  and  talon,  and  claw. 
Bony  hand,  and  hairy  paw, 
Yea,  crooked  horn,  and  tusky  jaw, 
The  four  huge  bodies  are  hauled  and  shoven 
Each  after  each  in  the  roarins  oven  ! 
*  *  *  * 

The  Eisen  Hutte  is  standins;  still ; 
Go  to  the  Hartz  whenever  you  will, 
And  there  it  is  beside  a  hill, 
And  a  rapid  stream  that  turns  many  a  mill ; 
The  self-same  Forge. —  you'll  know  it  at  si^ht  — 
Casting  upward,  day  and  night. 
Flames  of  red,  and  yellow,  and  white  ! 

Ay,  half  a  mile  from  the  mountain  gorge. 

There  it  is,  the  famous  Foro-e, 

With  its  furnace, —  the  same  that  blazed  of  yore,— 

Hugely  fed  with  fuel  and  ore  ; 

But  ever  since  that  tremendous  revel. 
Whatever  iron  is  melted  therein, — 
As  travellers  know  who  have  been  to  Berlin, — 

Is  all  as  black  as  the  Devil ! 


TO 


357 


TO 


COMPOSED    AT    ROTTERDAM. 


[  GAZE  upon  a  city, —  a  city  new  and  strange ; 
Down  many  a  watery  vista  my  fancy  takes  a  range : 
From  side  to  side  I  saunter,  and  wonder  where  I  am  ; 
And  can  you  be  in  England,  and  /  at  Rotterdam  ! 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters  in  broad  canals  and  deep. 
Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams  sleep,  restless  in  their  sleep  ; 
A  sort  of  vulgar  Venice  reminds  me  where  I  am  ; 
YeS;  yes,  you  are  in  England,  and  I  'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Tall  houses  with  quaint  gables,  where  frequent  windows  shine, 
And  quays  that  lead  to  bridges,  and  trees  in  formal  line, 
And  masts  of  spicy  vessels  from  western  Surinam, 
All  tell  me  you  're  in  England,  but  I  'm  in  Rotterdam. 

Those  sailors,  how  outlandish  the  face  and  form  of  each  ! 
They  deal  in  foreign  gestures,  and  use  a  foreign  speech ; 
A  tongue  not  learned  near  Isis,  or  studied  by  the  Cam, 
Declares  that  you  're  in  England,  and  I  'm  at  Rotterdam. 

And  now  across  a  market  my  doubtful  way  I  trace, 
Where  stands  a  solemn  statue,  the  Genius  of  the  place ; 
And  to  the  great  Ei'asmus  I  offer  my  salaam  ; 
Who  tells  me  you  're  in  England,  but  I  'm  at  Rotterdam. 

The  coffee-room  is  open  —  I  mingle  in  its  crowd, — 
The  dominos  are  noisy  —  the  hookahs  raise  a  cloud  : 
The  flavor  now  of  Fearon's,  that  mingles  with  my  dram, 
Reminds  me  you  're  in  England,  and  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Then  here  it  goes,  a  bumper  —  the  toast  it  shall  be  mine, 
In  schiedam,  or  in  sherry,  tokay,  or  hock  of  Rhine  ; 
it  well  deserves  the  brightest,  where  sunbeam  ever  swam  — 
''  The  Girl  I  love  hi  England  "  I  drink  at  Rotterdam  ! 
March,  1835. 


358  THE   SEASON.  —  LOVE. 

THE    SEASON. 

Summer  's  gone  and  over  ! 

Fogs  are  falling  down  ; 
And  with  russet  tinges 

Autumn 's  doing  brown. 

Boughs  are  daily  rifled 
By  the  gusty  thieves, 

And  the  Book  of  Nature 
Getteth  short  of  leaves. 

Round  the  tops  of  houses, 
Swallows,  as  they  flit, 

Give,  like  yearly  tenants. 
Notices  to  quit. 

Skies,  of  fickle  temper, 
Weep  by  turns,  and  laugh  ■ 

Night  and  Day  together 
Taking  half-and-half. 

So  September  endeth  — 
Cold,  and  most  perverse  — 

But  the  month  that  follows 
Sure  will  pmch  us  worse  ! 


LOVE. 

0,  Love  !  what  art  thou,  Love?  the  ace  of  hearts. 

Trumping  earth's  kings  and  queens,  and  all  its  suits; 
A  player,  masquerading  many  parts 

In  life's  odd  carnival ;  —  a  boy  that  shoots. 
From  ladies'  eyes,  such  mortal  woundy  darts  ; 

A  gardener,  pulling  heart' s-ease  up  by  the  roots; 
The  Puck  of  Passion  —  partly  false  —  part  real  — 
A  marriageable  maiden's  "  beau  ideal "  1 


FAITHLESS   SALLY   BROWN.  359 

0.  Love !  what  art  thou.  Love  ]  a  wicked  thing, 
Makmg  green  misses  spoil  their  work  at  school : 

A  melancholj  man,  cross-gartering  ! 

Grave  ripe-faced  Wisdom  made  an  April  fool  ?- 

A  youngster,  tilting  at  a  wedding-ring  7 
A  sinner,  sitting  on  a  cuttie-stool  ? 

A  Ferdinand  de  Something  in  a  hovel, 

Helping  Matilda  Rose  to  make  a  novel  ? 

0,  Love  !  what  art  thou.  Love  ?  one  that  is  bad 
With  palpitations  of  the  heart  —  like  mine  — 

A  poor  bewildered  maid,  making  so  sad 
A  necklace  of  her  garters  —  fell  design  ! 

A  poet,  gone  unreasonably  mad, 

Ending  his  sonnets  with  a  hempen  line  ? 

0,  Love  !  — but  whither,  now  ?  forgive  me,  pray  ; 

I  'm  not  the  first  that  Love  hath  led  astray. 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 

AX    OLD    BALLAD. 

You^'G  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man, 

A  cai-penter  by  trade  ; 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

That  was  a  lady's  maid. 

But  as  they  fetched  a  walk  one  day, 
They  met  a  press-gang  crew  ; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 
AMiilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words, 

Enough  to  shock  a  saint, 
That  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

'T  was  nothing  but  a  feint. 


360  FAITHLESS  SALLY   BROWN. 

"  Come,  girl,"  said  he,  "hold  up  your  head, 

He  '11  be  as  good  as  me ; 
For  when  your  swam  is  in  our  boat, 

A  boatswain  he  will  be." 

So  when  they  'd  made  their  game  of  her, 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  coming  to  herself 

"  And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ?  " 
She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 

"  Then  I  will  to  the  water  side, 
And  see  him  out  of  sig-ht." 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her, — 
"Now,  young  woman,"  said  he, 

"  K  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye- water  in  the  sea." 

"  Alas  !  they  've  taken  my  beau,  Ben, 

To  sail  with  old  Benbow  ;  " 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she  'd  said.  Gee  woe  ! 

Says  he,  "  They  Ve  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender-ship,  you  see;  " 

"The  Tender-ship,"  cried  Sally  Brown, 
"  What  a  hard-ship  that  must  be  ! 

"  0  !  would  I  were  a  mermaid  now, 

For  then  I  'd  follow  him  ; 
But,  0  !  —  I'm  not  a  fish- woman, 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

"  Alas  !  I  was  not  born  beneath 

The  virgin  and  the  scales, 
So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  Wales." 


bianca's  dream.  361 

Now  Ben  had  sailed  to  many  a  place 

That 's  underneath  the  world  ; 
But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home, 

And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

But  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  got  on, 
He  found  she  'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

"  0,  Sally  Brown,  0,  Sally  Brown, 

How  could  you  serve  me  so  7 
I  've  met  with  many  a  breeze  before, 

But  never  such  a  blow  !  " 

Then  reading  on  his  'bacco-box, 

He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "  All 's  Well," 

But  could  not,  though  he  tried ; 
His  head  was  turned,  and  so  h'fe  chewed 

His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happened  in  his  berth, 

At  forty-odd  befell : 
They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 
The  sexton  tolled  the  bell. 


BIANCA'S  DREAM. 

A    VENETI^iJSI    STORY. 

BiANCA  !  —  fair  Bianca  !  —  who  could  dwell 
With  safety  on  her  dark  and  hazel  gaze. 

Nor  find  there  lurked  in  it  a  witching  spell, 
Fatal  to  balmy  nights  and  blessed  days  1 
31 


362  bianca's  dream. 

The  peaceful  breath  that  made  the  bosom  swell 

She  turned  to  gas,  and  set  it  in  a  blaze ; 
Each  eye  of  hers  had  Love's  Eupyrion  in  it, 
That  he  could  light  his  link  at  in  a  minute. 

So  that,  wherever  in  her  charms  she  shone, 
A  thousand  breasts  were  kindled  into  flame  ; 

Maidens  who  cursed  her  looks  forgot  their  own, 

And  beaux  were  turned  to  flambeaux  where  she  came 

All  hearts  indeed  were  conquered  but  her  own, 
Which  none  could  ever  temper  down  or  tame : 

In  short,  to  take  our  haberdasher's  hints, 

She  might  have  written  over  it, —  "  From  Flints." 

She  was,  in  truth,  the  wonder  of  her  sex, 

At  least  in  Venice  —  where  with  eyes  of  brown, 

Tenderly  languid,  ladies  seldom  vex 

An  amorous  gentle  with  a  needless  frown ; 

Where  gondolas  convey  guitars  by  pecks. 

And  love  at  casements  climbeth  up  and  down, 

Whom,  for  his  tricks  and  custom  in  that  kind, 

Some  have  considered  a  Venetian  blind. 

Howbeit,  this  difference  was  quickly  taught. 

Amongst  more  youths  who  had  this  cruel  jailer, 

To  hapless  Julio  —  all  in  vain  he  sought 

With  each  new  moon  his  hatter  and  his  tailor  ; 

In  vain  the  richest  padusoy  he  bought. 

And  went  in  bran-new  beaver  to  assail  her  — 

As  if  to  show  that  Love  had  made  him  smart 

All  over  —  and  not  merely  round  his  heart. 

In  vain  he  labored  through  the  sylvan  park 
Bianca  haunted  in  —  that  where  she  came 

Her  learned  eyes  in  wandering  might  mark 
The  twisted  cipher  of  her  maiden  name. 


bianca's  dream.  363 

Wholesomely  going  through  a  course  of  bark : 

No  one  was  touched  or  troubled  bj  his  flame, 
Except  the  Dryads,  those  old  maids  that  grow 
In  trees, —  like  wooden  dolls  in  embryo. 

In  vain  complaining  elegies  he  writ, 

And  taught  his  tuneful  instrument  to  grieve. 

And  sang  in  quavers  how  Ids  heart  was  split, 
Constant  beneath  her  lattice  with  each  eve ; 

She  mocked  his  wooing  with  her  wicked  wit, 

And  slashed  his  suit  so  that  it  matched  his  sleeve, 

Till  he  grew  silent  at  the  vesper  star, 

And,  quite  despairing,  hamstringed  his  guitar. 

Bianca's  heart  was  coldly  frosted  o'er 

With  snows  unmelting  — an  eternal  sheet ; 

But  his  was  red  within  him.  hke  the  core 
Of  old  Vesuvius,  with  perpetual  heat ; 

And  oft  he  longed  internally  to  pour 
His  flames  and  glowing  lava  at  her  feet, 

But  when  his  burnings  he  began  to  spout, 

She  stopped  his  mouth,  and  put  the  crater  out. 

Meanwhile  he  wasted  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  thin,  he  seemed  a  sort  of  skeleton-key 

Suspended  at  Death's  door  — so  pale  — and  then 
He  turned  as  nervous  as  an  aspen-tree  ; 

The  Hfe  of  man  is  three-score  years  and  ten, 
But  he  was  perishing  at  twenty-three. 

For  people  truly  said,  as  grief  grew  stronger, 

'■'■  It  could  not  shorten  his  poor  life  —  much  longer." 

For  why,  he  neither  slept,  nor  drank,  nor  fed, 

Nor  relished  any  kind  of  mii'th  below ; 
Fire  in  his  heart,  and  frenzy  in  his  head, 

Love  had  become  his  universal  foe, 


364  biaxca's  dream. 

Salt  in  his  sugar  —  nightmare  in  his  bed, 

At  last,  no  wonder  wretched  Julio, 
A  sorrow-ridden  thing,  in  utter  dearth 
Of  hope, —  made  up  his  mind  to  cut  her  girth  ! 

For  hapless  lovers  always  died  of  old, 
Sooner  than  chew  reflection's  bitter  cud ; 

So  Thisbe  stuck  herself,  what  time  'tis  told 
The  tender-hearted  mulberries  wept  blood : 

And  so  poor  Sappho,  when  her  boy  was  cold. 
Drowned  her  salt  tear-drops  in  a  salter  flood, 

Theii"  fame  still  breathing,  though  their  breath  be  past 

For  those  old  suitors  lived  beyond  their  last. 

So  Julio  went  to  drown, — when  life  was  dull, 
But  took  his  corks,  and  merely  had  a  bath  ; 

And  once,  he  pulled  a  trigger  at  his  skull, 
But  merely  broke  a  window  in  his  wrath ; 

And  once,  his  hopeless  being  to  annul. 
He  tied  a  pack-thread  to  a  beam  of  lath, 

A  line  so  ample,  't  was  a  query  whether 

'T  was  meant  to  be  a  halter  or  a  tether. 

Smile  not  in  scorn,  that  Julio  did  not  thrust 
His  sorrows  throuo;h  —  "t  is  horrible  to  die ; 

And  come  down  with  our  little  all  of  dust, 
That  dun  of  all  the  duns  to  satisfy ; 

To  leave  Hfe's  pleasant  city  as  we  must. 

In  Death's  most  dreary  sponging-house  to  lie, 

Where  even  all  our  personals  must  go 

To  pay  the  debt  of  nature  that  we  owe  ! 

So  Julio  lived :  —  'twas  nothing  but  a  pet 

He  took  at  life  —  a  momentary  spite ; 
Besides,  he  hoped  that  time  would  some  day  get 
The  better  of  love's  flame,  however  bright. 


bianca's  dream. 


865 


A  thing  that  time  has  never  compassed  yet, 

For  love,  we  know,  is  an  immortal  light. 
Like  that  old  fire,  that,  quite  beyond  a  doubt. 
Was  always  in, — for  none  have  found  it  out. 
Meanwhile,  Bianca  dreamed— 'twas  once  when  night 

Along  the  darkened  plain  began  to  creep. 
Like  a  young  Hottentot,  whose  eyes  are  bright, 

Although  in  skin  as  sooty  as  a  sweep  : 
The  flowers  had  shut  their  eyes  —  the  zephyr  light 

Was  gone,  for  it  had  rocked  the  leaves  to  sleep, 
And  all  the  little  birds  had  laid  their  heads 
Under  their  wings  —  sleeping  in  feather  beds. 

Lone  in  her  chamber  sate  the  dark-eyed  maid, 
By  easy  stages  jaunting  through  her  prayers, 

But  listening  side  long  to  a  serenade, 

That  robbed  the  saints  a  little  of  their  shares ; 

For  Julio  underneath  the  lattice  played 
His  Deh  Vieni,  and  such  amorous  airs. 

Born  only  underneath  Italian  skies, 

Where  every  fiddle  has  a  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

Sweet  was  the  tune  —  the  words  were  even  sweeter, 
Praising  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  nose,  her  hair, 

With  all  the  common  tropes  wherewith  in  metre 
The  hackney  poets  overcharge  their  fair. 

Her  shape  was  like  Diana's,  but  completer ; 
Her  brow  with  Grecian  Helen's  might  compare. 

Cupid,  alas  !  was  cruel  Sagittarius, 

Julio — the  weeping  waterman  Aquarius. 

Now,  after  listing  to  such  landings  rare, 

'T  was  very  natural  indeed  to  go  — 
What  if  she  did  postpone  one  little  prayer  !  — 

To  ask  her  mirror  "  if  it  was  not  so'?" 
31* 


366 


biaxca's  dream. 


'T  "was  a  large  mirror,  none  the  worse  for  wear, 

Reflecting  her  at  once  from  top  to  toe  : 
And  there  she  gazed  upon  that  glossy  track. 
That  showed  her  front  face,  though  it  •'  gave  her  back." 

And  long  her  lovely  eyes  were  held  in  thrall, 
By  that  dear  page  where  first  the  woman  reads : 

That  Julio  was  no  flatterer,  none  at  all, 

She  told  herself —  and  then  she  told  her  beads  ; 

Meanwhile,  the  nerves  insensibly  let  fall 
Two  curtains  fairer  than  the  lily  breeds : 

For  sleep  had  crept  and  kissed  her  unawares, 

Just  at  the  half-way  milestone  of  her  prayers. 

Then  like  a  drooping  rose  so  bended  she, 

Till  her  bowed  head  upon  her  hand  reposed ; 

But  still  she  plainly  saw,  or  seemed  to  see. 

That  fair  reflection,  though  her  eyes  were  closed, 

A  beauty  bright,  as  it  was  wont  to  be. 

A  portrait  Fancy  painted  while  she  dozed  : 

'T  is  very  natural,  some  people  say, 

To  dream  of  what  we  dwell  on  in  the-  day. 

Still  shone  her  face  —  yet  not,  alas  !  the  same, 
But  "gan  some  dreary  touches  to  assume, 

And  sadder  thoughts  with  sadder  changes  came  — 
Her  eyes  resigned  their  light,  her  lips  their  bloom, 

Her  teeth  fell  out,  her  tresses  did  the  same. 

Her  cheeks  were  tinged  with  bile,  her  eyes  with  rheum 

There  was  a  throbbing  at  her  heart  within. 

For,  0 !  there  was  a  shooting  in  her  chin. 

And.  lo  !  upon  her  sad  desponding  brow 

The  cruel  trenches  of  besieging  age. 
With  seams,  but  most  unseemly,  'gan  to  show 

Her  place  was  booking  for  the  seventh  stage ; 


bianca's  dream.  8G7 

And  where  her  raven  tresses  used  to  floAv, 

Some  locks  that  time  had  left  her  in  his  rao-e. 
And  some  mock  ringlets,  made  her  forehead  shady, 
A  compound  (like  our  Psalms)  of  tete  and  braid j. 

Then  for  her  shape — alas!  how  Saturn  wrecks, 
And  bends,  and  corkscrews  all  the  frame  about, 

Doubles  the  hams,  and  crooks  the  straightest  necks. 
Draws  in  the  nape,  and  pushes  forth  the  snout, 

Makes  backs  and  stomachs  concave  or  convex : 
Witness  those  pensioners  called  In  and  Out, 

Who,  all  day  watching  first  and  second  rater, 

Quaintly  unbend  themselves  —  but  grow  no  straighter 

So  time  with  fair  Bianca  dealt,  and  made 

Her  shape  a  bow,  that  once  was  like  an  arrow ; 

His  iron  hand  upon  her  spine  he  laid, 

And  twisted  all  awry  her  "  winsome  marrow." 

In  truth  it  was  a  change  !  —  she  had  obeyed 
The  holy  Pope  before  her  chest  grew  narrow, 

But  spectacles  and  palsy  seemed  to  make  her 

Something  between  a  Glassite  and  a  Quaker. 

Her  grief  and  gall  meanwhile  were  quite  extreme, 
And  she  had  ample  reason  for  her  trouble ; 

For  what  sad  maiden  can  endure  to  seem 

Set  in  for  singleness,  though  growing  double  1 

The  fancy  maddened  her ;  but  now  the  dream, 
Grown  thin  by  getting  bigger,  like  a  bubble. 

Burst, — but  still  left  some  fragments  of  its  size, 

That,  like  the  soap-suds,  smarted,  in  her  eyes. 

And  here  — just  here  —  as  she  began  to  heed 
The  real  world,  her  clock  chimed  out  its  score ; 

A  clock  it  was  of  the  Venetian  breed, 

That  cried  the  hour  from  one  to  twenty-four ; 


368  bianca's  dream. 

The  works  moreover  standing  in  some  need 

Of  workmanship,  it  struck  some  dozens  more  ; 
A  warning;  voice  that  clenched  Bianca's  fears, 
Such  strokes  referring  doubtless  to  her  years. 

At  fifteen  chimes  she  was  but  half  a  nun, 
By  twenty  she  had  quite  renounced  the  veil ; 

She  thought  of  Julio  just  at  twenty-one. 
And  thirty  made  her  very  sad  and  pale, 

To  paint  that  ruin  where  her  charms  would  run  ; 
At  forty  all  the  maid  began  to  fail. 

And  thouo;ht  no  higher,  as  the  late  dream  crossed  her, 

Of  single  blessedness,  than  single  Gloster. 

And  so  Bianca  changed :  —  the  next  sweet  even. 

With  Julio  in  a  black  Venetian  bark, 
Rowed  slow  and  stealthily — the  hour,  eleven, 

Just  sounding  from  the  tower  old  St.  Mark, 
She  sate  with  eyes  turned  quietly  to  heaven. 

Perchance  rejoicing  in  the  grateful  dark 
That  veiled  her  blushing  cheek, —  for  Julio  brought  her 
Of  course — to  break  the  ice  upon  the  water. 

But  what  a  puzzle  is  one's  serious  mind 
To  open  !  —  oysters,  when  the  ice  is  thick, 

Are  not  so  difficult  and  disinclined ; 
And  Julio  felt  the  declaration  stick 

About  his  throat  in  a  most  awful  kind; 
However,  he  contrived  by  bits  to  pick 

His  trouble  forth, —  much  like  a  rotten  cork 

Groped  from  a  long-necked  bottle  with  a  fork. 

But  Love  is  still  the  quickest  of  all  readers ; 

And  Julio  spent,  besides  those  signs  profuse 
That  English  telegraphs  and  foreign  pleadei-s. 

In  help  of  language,  are  so  apt  to  use, 


bianca's  dream.  36& 

Arms-,  slioulderS;  fingers,  all  \sove  interceders, 

Nods,  shrugs  and  bendS; —  Bianca  could  not  choose 
But  soften  to  his  suit  with  more  focility, 
He  told  his  story  with  so  much  agility. 

"  Be  thou  my  park,  and  I  will  be  thy  dear, 
(So  he  began  at  last  to  speak  or  quote:) 

Be  thou  my  bark,  and  I  thy  gondolier, 
(For  passion  takes  this  figurative  note :) 

Be  thou  my  light,  and  I  thy  chandelier ; 
Be  thou  my  dove,  and  I  Avill  be  thy  cote : 

My  lily  be,  and  I  will  be  thy  river ; 

Be  thou  my  life  —  and  I  will  be  thy  liver.'' 

This,  with  more  tender  logic  of  the  kind, 
He  poured  into  her  small  and  shell-like  .ear, 

That  timidly  against  his  lips  inclined  : 

Meanwhile  her  eyes  glanced  on  the  silver  sphere 

That  even  now  began  to  steal  behind 

A  dewy  vapor,  which  was  lingering  near, 

Wherein  the  dull  moon  crept  all  dim  and  pale, 

Just  like  a  virgin  putting  on  the  veil :  — 

Bidding  adieu  to  all  her  sparks  —  the  stars. 

That  erst  had  wooed  and  worshipped  in  her  train, 
Saturn  and  Hesperus,  and  gallant  Mars  — 

Never  to  flirt  with  heavenly  eyes  again. 
Meanwhile,  remindful  of  the  convent  bars, 

Bianca  did  not  watch  these  signs  in  vain. 
But  turned  to  Julio  at  the  dark  eclipse, 
With  words,  like  verbal  kisses,  on  her  lips. 

He  took  the  hint  full  speedily,  and,  backed 

By  love,  and  night,  and  the  occasion's  meetness, 

Bestowed  a  something  on  her  cheek  that  smacked 
(Though  quite  in  silence)  of  ambrosial  sweetness  ; 

That  made  her  think  all  other  kisses  lacked 


370 


OVER   THE   WAY. 


Till  then,  but  what  she  knew  not,  of  completeness 
Being  used  but  sisterlj  salutes  to  feel, 
Insipid  things  —  like  sandwiches  of  veal. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  soon  she  felt  him  wring 
The  i^retty  fingers  all,  instead  of  one  ; 

Anon  his  stealthy  arm  began  to  cling 

About  her  waist  that  had  been  clasped  by  none  ; 

Their  dear  confessions  I  forbear  to  sing. 

Since  cold  description  would  but  be  outrun ; 

For  bHss  and  Lish  watches  have  the  power 

In  twenty  minutes  to  lose  half  an  hour  ! 


OVER  THE  WAY. 

"  I  gat  over  against  a  window  where  there  stood  a  pot  with  yery  pretty 
flowers  ;  and  had  my  eyes  fixed  on  it,  when  on  a  sudden  the  window  opened, 
and  a  young  lady  appeared  whose  beauty  struck  me.'' — Arabian  Nights. 

Alas  !  the  flames  of  an  unhappy  lover 
About  my  heart  and  on  my  vitals  prey ; 
I  've  caught  a  fever  that  I  can't  get  over, 
Over  the  way  ! 

0  !  why  are  eyes  of  hazel  7  noses  Grecian  ? 
I've  lost  my  rest  by  night,  my  peace  by  day, 
For  want  of  some  brown  Holland  or  Venetian, 

Over  the  way  ! 

1  've  gazed  too  often,  till  my  heart  "s  as  lost 
As  any  needle  in  a  stack  of  hay  : 
Crosses  belong  to  love,  and  mine  is  crossed 

Over  the  way  ! 

I  cannot  read  or  write,  or  thoughts  relax  — 
Of  what  avail  Lord  Althorpe  or  Earl  Grey  7 
They  cannot  ease  me  of  my  wmdow-tax 
Over  the  way ! 


OVER   THE    V\'AY.  371 

Even  on  Sunday  my  devotions  vary, 
And  from  St.  Bennet  Flint  they  go  astray 
To  dear  St.  Mary  Overy  —  the  Mary 
Over  the  way ! 

0  !  if  my  godmother  were  but  a  fairy, 
With  magic  wand,  how  I  would  beg  and  pray 
That  she  would  change  me  into  that  canary 

Over  the  way  ! 

1  envy  everything  that 's  near  Miss  Lindo, 
A  pug,  a  poll,  a  squirrel  or  a  jay  — 

Blest  blue-bottles  !  that  buzz  about  the  window 
Over  the  way  ! 

Even  at  even,  for  there  be  no  shutters, 
I  see  her  reading  on,  from  grave  to  gay, 
Some  tale  or  poem,  till  the  candle  gutters, 
Over  the  way  ! 

And  then  —  0  !  then  —  while  the  clear  waxen  taper 
Emits,  two  stories  high,  a  starlike  ray, 
I  see  twelve  auburn  curls  put  into  paper 
Over  the  way  ! 

But  how  breathe  unto  her  my  deep  regards, 
Or  ask  her  for  a  whispered  ay  or  nay, — 
Or  offer  her  my  hand,  some  thirty  yards 
Over  the  way ! 

Cold  as  the  pole  she  is  to  my  adoring ;  — 
Like  Captain  Lyon,  at  Repulse's  Bay, 
I  meet  an  icy  end  to  my  exploring 

Over  the  way  ! 

Each  dirty  little  Savoyard  that  dances 
She  looks  on  —  Punch  — or  chimney-sweeps  in  May 
Zounds  !  wherefore  cannot  I  attract  her  glances 
Over  the  way  ? 


372 


OVER   THE   WAY. 


Half  out  she  leans  to  watch  a  tumbling  brat, 
Or  yelping  cur,  run  over  by  a  dray  ; 
But  I  'm  in  love  —  she  never  pities  that ! 
Over  the  way  ! 

I  go  to  the  same  church  —  a  love-lost  labor ; 
Haunt  all  her  walks,  and  dodge  her  at  the  play ; 
She  does  not  seem  to  know  she  has  a  neighbor 
Over  the  way  ! 

At  private  theatres  she  never  acts ; 
No  Crown-and- Anchor  balls  her  fancy  sway  ; 
She  never  visits  gentlemen  with  tracts 
Over  the  way  ! 

To  billets-doux  by  post  she  shows  no  favor  — 
In  short,  there  is  no  plot  that  I  can  lay 
To  break  my  window-pains  to  my  enslaver 
Over  the  way ! 

I  play  the  flute  —  she  heeds  not  my  chromatics  — 
No  friend  an  introduction  can  purvey  ; 
I  wish  a  fire  would  break  out  in  the  attics 
Over  the  way  ! 

My  wasted  form  ought  of  itself  to  touch  her ; 
My  baker  feels  my  appetite's  decay ; 
And  as  for  butcher's  meat  —  0  !  she 's  my  butcher 
Over  the  way ! 

At  beef  I  turn ;  at  lamb  or  veal  I  pout ; 
I  never  ring  now  to  bring  up  the  tray ; 
My  stomach  grumbles  at  my  dining  out 
Over  the  way ! 

I  'm  weary  of  my  life  ;  without  regret 
I  could  resign  this  miserable  clay 
To  lie  within  that  box  of  mignonette 
Over  the  way ! 


OVER   THE    WAY.  *■  373 

I  've  fitted  bullets  to  my  pistol-bore ; 
I  've  vowed  at  times  to  rush  where  trumpets  bray, 
Quite  sick  of  Number  One  —  and  Number  Four 
Over  the  way  ! 

Sometimes  my  fancy  builds  up  castles  any, 
Sometimes  it  only  paints  a  ferme  ornee, 
A  horse  —  a  cow  —  six  fowls  —  a  pig  —  and  Mary, 
Over  the  way  ! 

Sometimes  I  dream  of  her  in  bridal  white, 
Standing  before  the  altar,  like  a  fay  ; 
Sometimes  of  balls,  and  neighborly  invite 
Over  the  way ! 

I  've  cooed  with  her  in  dreams,  like  any  turtle ; 
I  've  snatched  her  from  the  Clyde,  the  Tweed,  and  Tay ; 
Thrice  I  have  made  a  grove  of  that  one  myrtle 
Over  the  way ! 

Thrice  I  have  rowed  her  in  a  fairy  shallop, 
Thrice  raced  to  Gretna  in  a  neat  "po-shay," 
And  showered  crowns  to  make  the  horses  gallop 
Over  the  way  ! 

And  thrice  I  've  started  up  from  dreams  appalling 
Of  killing  rivals  in  a  bloody  fray  — 
There  is  a  young  man  very  fond  of  calling 
Over  the  way ! 

0  !  happy  man  —  above  all  kings  in  glory. 
Whoever  in  her  ear  may  say  his  say, 
And  add  a  tale  of  love  to  that  one  story 
Over  the  way  ! 

Nabob  of  Arcot  —  Despot  of  Japan  — 
Sultan  of  Persia  —  Emperor  of  Cathay  — 
Much  rather  would  I  be  the  happy  man 
on  Over  the  way  ! 


374  EPICUREAN    REMIXISCEN^CES. 

With  such  a  lot  my  heart  would  be  in  clover  - 
But  what  —  0,  horror  !  —  what  do  I  survey  ! 
Postilions  and  white  favors  !  —  all  is  over 
Over  the  way  ! 


EPICUREAN  REMINISCENCES   OF  A  SENITMENTALIST. 

"  My  Tables  !  Meat  it  is,  I  set  it  down  !  "  —  Hamlet. 

I  THINK  it  was  Spring  —  but  not  certain  I  am  — 

When  my  passion  began  first  to  work  ; 
But  I  know  we  were  certainly  looking  for  lamb, 

And  the  season  was  over  for  pork. 

'T  was  at  Christmas,  I  think,  when  I  met  with  Miss  Chase. 

Yes. —  for  Morris  had  asked  me  to  dine, — 
And  I  thought  I  had  never  beheld  such  a  face, 

Or  so  noble  a  turkey  and  chine. 

Placed  close  by  her  side,  it  made  others  quite  wild 

With  sheer  envy  to  witness  my  luck ; 
How  she  blushed  as  I  gave  her  some  tui'tle,  and  smiled 

As  I  afterwards  offered  some  duck. 

I  looked  and  I  languished,  alas  !  to  my  cost, 
Through  three  courses  of  dishes  and  meats  ; 

Getting  deeper  in  love  —  but  my  heart  was  quite  lost, 
When  it  came  to  the  trifle  and  sweets  ! 

With  a  rent-roll  that  told  of  my  houses  and  land, 

To  her  parents  I  told  my  designs  — 
And  then  to  herself  I  presented  my  hand, 

With  a  very  fine  pottle  of  pines  ! 

I  asked  her  to  have  me  for  weal  or  for  wo^^ 

And  she  did  not  object  in  the  least ;  — 
I  can't  tell  the  date  —  but  we  married,  I  know, 

Just  in  time  to  have  game  at  the  feast. 


EPICUREAN   REMINISCENCES.  37^ 

We  weut  to ,  it  certainly  was  the  sea-side  ; 

For  the  next,  the  most  blessed  of  morns, 
I  remember  how  fondly  I  gazed  at  mj  bride, 

Sitting  down  to  a  plateful  of  prawns. 
0,  never  may  memory  lose  sight  of  that  year, 

But  still  hallow  the  time  as  it  ought ! 
That  season  the  "grass  "  was  remarkably  dear. 

And  the  peas  at  a  guinea  a  quart. 

So  happy,  like  hours,  all  our  days  seemed  to  haste, 
A  fond  pair,  such  as  poets  have  drawn. 

So  united  in  heart  —  so  congenial  in  taste  — 
We  were  both  of  us  partial  to  brawn  ! 

A  long  life  I  looked  for  of  bliss  with  my  bride. 
But  then  Death  —  I  ne'er  dreamt  about  that ! 

0,  there  's  nothing  is  certain  in  life,  as  I  cried 
When  my  turbot  eloped  with  the  cat ! 

My  dearest  took  ill  at  the  turn  of  the  year. 
But  the  cause  no  physician  could  nab  ; 

But  somethuig  it  seemed  like  consumption,  I  fear, — 
It  was  just  after  supping  on  crab. 

In  vain  she  was  doctored,  in  vain  she  was  dosed, 
Still  her  sti'ength  and  her  appetite  pined ; 

She  lost  relish  for  what  she  had  relished  the  most, 
Even  salmon  she  deeply  declined  ! 

For  months  still  I  lingered  in  hope  and  in  doubt, 
^Yliile  her  form  it  grew  wasted  and  thin ; 

But  the  last  dying  spark  of  existence  went  out. 
As  the  oysters  were  just  coming  in  ! 

She  died,  and  she  left  me  the  saddest  of  men, 

To  indulge  in  a  widower's  moan  ; 
0,  I  felt  all  the  power  of  solitude  then, 

As  I  ate  my  first  natives  alone  ! 


376  THE    CARELESSE    NURSE    MAYD. 

But  when  I  beheld  Virtue's  friends  in  their  cloaks, 
And  with  sorrowful  crape  on  theii'  hats, 

0  my  grief  poured  a  flood  !  and  the  out-of-door  folks 
Were  all  crying  —  I  think  it  was  sprats  ! 


THE   CARELESSE   NURSE   MAYD. 

I  SAWB  a  Mayd  sitte  on  a  Bank, 

Beguiled  by  "Wooer  fayne  and  fond  ; 

And  whiles  His  flatterynge  Vowes  She  drank, 

Her  Nurselynge  slipt  within  a  Pond  ! 

All  Even  Tide  they  Talkde  and  Kist, 
For  She  was  fayre  and  He  was  Kinde ; 
The  Sunne  went  down  before  She  wist 
Another  Sonne  had  sett  behinde  ! 

With  angrie  Hands  and  frownynge  Browe, 
That  deemd  Her  owne  the  Urchine's  Sinne, 
She  pluckt  Him  out,  but  he  was  nowe 
Past  being  Whipt  for  fallynge  in. 

She  then  beginnes  to  wayle  the  Ladde 
With  Shrikes  that  Echo  answerede  round  — 
0  !  foolishe  Mayd  to  be  soe  sadde 
The  Momente  that  her  Care  was  drownd  ! 


ODE   TO    PERRY.  877 

ODE    TO    PERRY, 

TUB    INVENTOR    OF    THE    PATENT    PERRYAN    PEN. 

*'  In  this  good  work,  Penn  appears  the  greatest,  usefullest  of  God's  instru- 
ments. Firm  and  unbending  when  the  exigency  requires  it — soft  and 
yielding  when  rigid  inflexibility  is  not  a  desideratum  — fluent  and  flowing, 
at  need,  for  eloquent  rapidity  —  slow  and  retentive  in  cases  of  deliberation 
—  never  spluttering  or  by  amplification  going  wide  of  the  mark — never 
splitting,  if  it  can  be  helped,  with  any  one,  but  ready  to  wear  itself  out 
rather  in  their  service  —  all  things  as  it  were  with  all  men,  —  ready  to  em- 
brace the  hand  of  Jew,  Christian,  or  Mahometan,  —  heavy  with  the  German, 
light  with  the  Italian,  oblique  with  the  English,  upright  with  the  Roman, 
backward  in  coming  forward  with  the  Hebrew,  —  in  short,  for  flexibility, 
amiability,  constitutional  durability,  general  abilitj^  and  universal  utility,  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  a  parallel  to  the  great  Penn." — Perry's  Character 
isTics  OF  A  Settler. 

0  !  Patent  Pen-inventing  Perrian  Perry  ! 

Friend  of  the  goose  and  gander, 
That  now  unplucked  of  their  quill-feathers  wander, 
Cackling,  and  gabbling,  dabbling,  making  merry, 

About  the  happy  fen, 
Untroubled  for  one  penny-worth  of  pen, 
For  which  they  chant  thy  praise  all  Britain  through, 

From  Goose-Green  unto  Gander- Cleugh  !  — 

Friend  to  all  Author-kind, — 
Whether  of  Poet  or  of  Proser, — 
Thou  art  composer  unto  the  composer 
Of  pens^ —  yea,  patent  vehicles  for  Mind 
To  carry  it  on  jaunts,  or  more  extensive 

Per rygrmations  through  the  realms  of  thought ; 
Each  plying  from  the  Comic  to  the  Pensive, 

An  Omnibus  of  intellectual  sort ! 

Modern  improvements  in  their  course  we  feel ; 
And  while  to  iron-railroads  heavy  wares, 
32* 


378  ODE    TO    PERRY. 

Dry  goods,  and  human  bodies,  pay  their  fares, 

Mind  flies  on  steel. 
To  Penrith,  Penrhyn,  even  to  Penzance  ; 

Nay,  penetrates,  perchance. 
To  Pennsylvania,  or.  without  rash  vaunts, 
To  where  the  Penguin  haunts  ! 

In  times  bygone,  when  each  man  cut  his  quill. 

With  little  Perryan  skill, 
What  horrid,  awkward,  bungling  tools  of  trade 
Appeared  the  writing  implements  home-made  ! 
What  Pens  were  sliced,  hewed,  hacked,  and  haggled  out, 
Slit  or  unslit,  with  many  a  various  snout. 
Aquiline.  Roman,  crooked,  square,  and  snubby, 

Stumpy  and  stubby; 
Some  capable  of  ladye-billets  neat. 
Some  only  fit  for  ledger-keeping  clerk, 
And  some  to  grub  down  Peter  Stubbs  his  mark, 
Or  smudge  thi'ough  some  illegible  receipt : 
Others  in  florid  caligraphic  plans, 
Equal  to  ships,  and  wiggy  heads,  and  swans  ! 

To  try  in  any  common  inkstands,  then. 
With  all  their  miscellaneous  stocks, 

To  find  a  decent  pen, 
Was  like  a  dip  into  a  lucky  box  : 

You  drew, —  and  got  one  very  curly. 
And  split  like  endive  in  some  hurly-burly ; 
The  next  unsUt,  and  square  at  end,  a  spade ; 
The  third,  incipient  pop-gun,  not  yet  made ; 
The  fourth  a  broom  ;  the  fifth  of  no  avail. 
Turned  upwards,  like  a  rabbit's  tail : 
And  last,  not  least,  by  way  of  a  relief, 
A  stump  that  Master  Richard,  James  or  John, 


ODE    TO    PERRY.  379 

Had  tried  his  candle-cookery  upon, 
Making  "  roast-beef!  " 

Not  so  thy  Perryan  Pens  ! 
True  to  their  M"s  and  N's, 
They  do  not  "with  a  whizzing  zig-zag  split, 
Straddle,  turn  up  their  noses,  sulk,  and  spit, 
Or  di'op  large  dots, 
Huge  full-stop  blots, 
Where  even  semicolons  were  unfit. 
They  will  not  frizzle  up,  or,  broom-like,  drudge 

In  sable  sludge  — 
Nay,  bought  at  proper  "  Patent  Perryan"  shops, 
They  write  good  grammar,  sense,  and  mind  their  stops : 
G  impose  both  prose  and  verse,  the  sad  and  merry  — 
For  when  the  editor,  whose  pains  compile 
The  grown-up  Annual,  or  the  Juvenile, 
Vaunteth  his  articles,  not  women's,  men's. 
But  lays  '•  by  the  most  celebrated  Pens," 
What  means  he  but  thy  Patent  Pens,  my  Perry  ? 

Pleasant  they  are  to  feel ! 
So  firm  !  so  flexible  !  composed  of  steel 
So  finely  tempered  —  fit  for  tenderest  Miss 

To  give  her  passion  breath, 
Or  kings  to  sign  the  warrant  stern  of  death  — 
But  their  supremest  merit  still  is  this. 

Write  with  them  all  your  days. 
Tragedy,  Comedy,  all  kinds  of  plays  — 
(No  dramatist  should  ever  be  without  'em)  — 

And,  just  conceive  the  bliss, — 
There  is  so  little  of  the  goose  about  'em, 

One  's  safe  from  any  hiss  ! 


380 


ODE   TO   PEKRY. 


Ah  !  who  can  paint  that  first  great  awful  night, 

Big  with  a  blessing  or  a  blight, 
When  the  poor  dramatist,  all  fume  and  fret, 
Fuss,  fidget,  fancy,  fever,  funking,  fright, 
Ferment,  fault-fearing,  faintness  —  more  f's  yet: 
Flushed,  frigid,  flurried,  flinching,  fitful,  flat, 
Add  famished,  fuddled,  and  fatigued,  to  that ; 
Funeral,  fate-foreboding  —  sits  in  doubt. 
Or  rather  doubt  with  hope,  a  wretched  marriage, 
To  see  his  play  upon  the  stage  come  out ; 
No  stage  to  him  !  it  is  Thalia's  carriage, 
And  he  is  sitting  on  the  spikes  behind  it, 
Striving  to  look  as  if  he  didn't  mind  it ! 

Witness  how  Beazley  vents  upon  his  hat 
His  nervousness,  meanwhile  his  fate  is  dealt : 
He  kneads,  moulds,  pummels  it.  and  sits  it  flat, 
Squeezes  and  twists  it  up.  until  the  felt. 
That  went  a  beaver  in,  comes  out  a  rat ! 
Miss  IMitford  had  mis-gi^^ngs,  and  in  fright, 

Upon  Rienzi's  night. 
Gnawed  up  one  long  kid  glove,  and  all  her  bag, 

Quite  to  a  rag. 
Knowles  has  confessed  he  trembled  as  for  life, 

Afraid  of  his  own  "  Wife  ; '"' 
Poole  told  me  that  he  felt  a  monstrous  pail 
Of  water  backing  him,  all  down  his  spine, — 
"  The  ice-brook's  temper  ''  —  pleasant  to  the  chine  ! 
For  fear  that  Simpson  and  his  Co.  should  fail. 
Did  Lord  Glengall  not  frame  a  mental  prayer, 
Wishing  devoutly  he  was  Lord  knows  where  1 
Nay.  did  not  Jerrold,  in  enormous  drouth, 
While  doubtful  of  Nell  Gwynne's  eventful  luck, 

Squeeze  out  and  suck 


ODE    TO    PERRY.  881 

More  oranges  tattt  his  one  fevered  mouth 
Than  Nellj  had  to  hawk  from  north  to  south  7 
Yea,  Buckstone,  changing  color  like  a  mullet, 
Refused,  on  an  occasion,  once,  twice,  thrice, 
From  his  best  friend,  an  ice, 
Lest  it  should  hiss  in  his  own  red-hot  gullet. 

Doth  punning  Peake  noi  sit  upon  the  points 
Of  his  own  jokes,  and  shake  in  all  his  joints, 

During  their  trial  7 

"T  is  past  denial. 
And  does  not  Pocock,  feeling,  like  a  peacock. 
All  eyes  upon  him,  turn  to  very  meacock  7 
And  does  not  Planch  e,  tremulous  and  blank. 
Meanwhile  his  personages  tread  the  boards, 

Seem  goaded  by  sharp  swords. 
And  called  upon  himself  to  '•  walk  the  plank  "  7 
As  for  the  Dances,  Charles  and  George  to  boot, 

What  have  they  more 
Of  ease  and  rest,  for  sole  of  either  foot, 
Thau  bear  that  capers  on  a  hotted  floor  ! 

Thus  pending  —  does  not  Mathews,  at  sad  shift 
For  voice,  croak  like  a  frog  in  waters  fenny  7  — 
Serle  seem  upon  the  surly  seas  adrift  7  — 
And  Kenny  think  he 's  going  to  Kilkenny  7  — 
Haynes  Bayly  feel  Old  ditto,  with  the  note 
Of  Cotton  in  his  ear,  a  mortal  grapple 

About  his  arms,  and  Adam's  apple 
Big  as  a  fine  Dutch  codling  in  his  throat  7 
Did  Rodwell,  on  his  chimney-piece,  desire 
Or  not  to  take  a  jump  into  the  fire  7 
Did  "Wade  feel  as  composed  as  music  can  7 
And  was  not  Bernard  his  own  Nervous  Man  7 


382 


ODE    TO    PERRY. 


Lastly,  don't  Farley,  a  bewildered  elf, 
Quake  at  the  Pantomime  he  loves  to  cater, 
And  ere  its  chano-es  rino;  transform  himself  1  — 

A  frio-htful  muo;  of  human  delf  ? 
A  spirit-bottle  —  empty  of  "  the  cratur  "  7 

A  leaden-platter  ready  for  the  shelf? 

A  thunderstruck  dumb-waiter  7 

To  clench  the  fact, 
Myself,  once  guilty  of  one  small  rash  act, 
Committed  at  the  Surrey, 
Quite  in  a  hurry, 
Felt  all  this  flurry, 
Corporal  worry, 
And  spiritual  scurry, 
Dram-devil  —  attic  curry  ! 
All  going  well, 
From  prompter's  bell, 
Until  befell 
A  hissing  at  some  dull  imperfect  dunce  — 

There 's  no  denying 
I  felt  in  all  four  elements  at  once  ! 
My  head  was  swimming,  while  my  arms  were  flying  ! 
My  legs  for  running  —  all  the  rest  was  frying ! 

Thrice  welcome,  then,  for  this  peculiar  use, 

Thy  pens  so  innocent  of  goose  ! 
For  this  shall  dramatists,  when  they  make  merry. 
Discarding  port  and  sherry, 
Drink— "Perry!" 
Perry,  whose  fame,  pennated,  is  let  loose 

To  distant  lands, 
Perry,  admitted  on  all  hands, 
Text,  running,  German,  Roman, 
For  Patent  Perryans  approached  by  no  man  ! 


NUMBER   ONE.  383 

And  when,  ah  me  !  far  distant  be  the  hour  ! 
Pluto  shidl  call  thee  to  his  gloomy  bower, 
Many  shall  be  thy  pensive  mourners,  many  ! 
And  Penury  itself  shall  club  its  penny 
To  raise  thy  monument  in  lofty  place, 
Higher  than  York's  or  any  son  of  War : 
Whilst  time  all  meaner  effigies  shall  bury, 

On  due  pentagonal  base 
Shall  stand  the  Parian,  Perryan,  periwigged  Perry, 
Perched  on  the  proudest  peak  of  Penman  Mawr  ! 


NUMBER   ONE. 

VERSIFIED    FROM    THE    PROSE   OF   A    TOUXG    LADY. 

Tt  's  very  hard  !  — and  so  it  is,  to  live  in  such  a  row, — 
And  witness  this  that  every  miss  but  me  has  got  a  beau. — 
For  Love  goes  calling  up  and  down,  but  here  he  seems  to 

shun  ; 
I  'm  sure  he  has  been  asked  enough  to  call  at  Number  One  ! 

I  'm  sick  of  all  the  double  knocks  that  come  to  Number 

Four  !  — 
That  Number  Three,  I  often  see  a  lover  at  the  door ;  — 
And  one  in  blue,  at  Number  Two,  calls  daily  like  a  dun. — 
It 's  very  hard  they  come  so  near,  and  not  to  Number  One  ! 

^Iis3  Bell,  I  hear,  has  got  a  dear  exactly  to  her  mind, — ■ 
By  sitting  at  the  window-pane  without  a  bit  of  blind ;  — 
But  I  go  in  the  balcony,  which  she  has  never  done. 
Yet  arts  that  thrive  at  Number  Five  don't  take  at  Number 
One! 

"T  is  hard,  with  plenty  in  the  street,  and  plenty  passing  by, — 
There  's  nice  young  men  at  Number  Ten,  but  only  rather 
shy;  — 


884 


NUMBEK    ONE. 


And  Mrs.  Smith  across  the  way  has  got  a  groTvu-up  .son, 
But,  la  !  he  hardlj  seems  to  know  there  is  a  Xumber  One  ! 

There 's  Mr.  Wick  at  Number  Nine,  but  he 's  intent  on  pelf; 

And  though  he  's  pious  will  not  love  his  neighbor  as  him- 
self.— 

At  Number  Seven  there  was  a  sale  —  the  goods  had  quite 
a  run  ! 

And  here  I  "ve  got  mj  single  lot  on  hand  at  Xumber  One  ! 

My  mother  often  sits  at  ^vork  and  talks  of  props  and  stays, 
And  what  a  comfort  I  shall  be  in  her  declining  davs  :  — 
The  very  maids  about  the  house  have  set  me  down  a  nun, 
The  sweethearts  all  belong  to  them  that  call  at  Number  One  ! 

Once  only,  when  the  flue  took  fire,  one  Friday  afternoon, 
Young  Mr.  Long  came  kindly  in  and  told  me  not  to  swoon  : 
Why  can't  he  come  again  without  the  Phoenix  and  the  Sun  7 
We  cannot  always  have  a  flue  on  fire  at  Number  One  ! 

I  am  not  old,  I  am  not  plain,  nor  awkward  in  my  gait  — 
I  am  not  crooked,  like  the  bride  that  went  from  Number 

Eight :  — 
I  'm  sure  white  satin  made  her  look  as  brown  as  any  bun  — 
But  even  beauty  has  no  chance,  I  think,  at  Number  One  ! 

At  Number  Six  they  say  i\Iiss  Rose  has  slain  a  score  of 

hearts. 
And  Cupid,  for  her  sake,  has  been  quite  prodigal  of  darts. 
The  imp  they  show  with  bended  bow,  I  wish  he  had  a  gun  ! 
But  if  he  had.  he  'd  never  deign  to  shoot  with  Number  One. 

It 's  very  hard,  and  so  it  is,  to  live  in  such  a  row  ! 
And  here  "s  a  ballad-singer  come  to  aggravate  my  woe  :  — 
0,  take  away  your  foolish  song  and  tones  enough  to  stun  — 
There  is  "  Nae  luck  about  the  house,"  I  know,  at  Number 
One! 


LINES   ON   THE   CELEBRATION   OF   PEACE.  385 

LINIS  ON  THE  CELEBRATION  OF   PEACE. 

BY   DORCAS    DOVE. 

And  is  it  thus  ye  welcome  Peace, 

From  mouths  of  forty -poundiug  Bores  ? 

0,  cease,  exploding  Cannons,  cease  ! 
Lest  Peace,  affrighted,  shun  our  shores  ! 

Not  so  the  quiet  Queen  should  come  ; 

But  like  a  Nurse  to  still  our  Fears, 
With  shoes  of  List,  demurely  dumb. 

And  Wool  or  Cotton  in  her  Ears  ! 

She  asks  for  no  triumphal  Arch  ; 

No  Steeples  for  their  ropy  Tongues  ; 
Down,  Drumsticks,  down  !    She  needs  no  March, 

Or  blasted  Trumps  from  brazen  Lungs. 

She  wants  no  Noise  of  mobbing  Throats 

To  tell  that  She  is  drawing  nigh  : 
Why  this  Parade  of  scarlet  Coats, 

When  War  has  closed  his  bloodshot  Eye  1 

Returning  to  Domestic  Loves, 

When  War  has  ceased  with  all  its  Ills, 

Captains  should  come  like  sucking  Doves, 
With  Olive  Branches  in  their  Bills. 

No  need  there  is  of  vulgar  Shout, 

Bells,  Cannons,  Trumpets,  Fife  and  Drum, 

And  Soldiers  marching  all  about, 
To  let  Us  know  that  Peace  is  come. 

0,  mild  should  be  the  Signs,  and  meek, 

Sweet  Peace's  Advent  to  proclaim  ! 
Silence  her  noiseless  Foot  should  speak, 

And  Echo  should  repeat  the  same. 


386  THE   DEMON-SHIP. 

Lo  !  where  tlie  Soldier  walks,  alas  ! 

With  Scars  received  on  foreign  Grounds  ; 
Shall  we  consume  in  colored  Glass 

The  Oil  that  should  be  poured  in  Wounds  7 

The  bleeding  Gaps  of  War  to  close, 
Will  whizzing  Rocket-Flight  avail  1 

Will  Squibs  enliven  Orphans'  Woes  1 
Or  Crackers  cheer  the  Widow's  Tale  ? 


THE  DEMON-SHIP. 

"T  WAS  off  the  Wash  —  the  sun  went  down  —  the  sea  looked 

black  and  grim, 
For  stormy  clouds  with  murky  fleece  were  mustering  at  the 

brim ; 
Titanic  shades  !  enormous  gloom  !  —  as  if  the  solid  night 
Of  Erebus  rose  suddenly  to  seize  upon  the  light ! 
It  was  a  time  for  mariners  to  bear  a  wary  eye, 
With  such  a  dark  conspiracy  between  the  sea  and  sky ! 

Down  went  my  helm  —  close  reefed  —  the  tack  held  freely 

in  my  hand  — 
With  ballast  snug  —  I  put  about,  and  scudded  for  the  land. 
Loud  hissed  the  sea  beneath  her  lee ;  my  little  boat  flew  fast, 
But  faster  still  the  rushing  storm  came  borne  upon  the  blast. 
Lord !  what  a  roaring  hurricane  beset  the  straining  sail  ! 
What  furious  sleet,  with  level  drift,  and  fierce  assaults  of 

hail ! 
What  darksome  caverns  yawned  before  !  what  jagged  steeps 

behind ! 
Like  battle-steeds,  with  foamy  manes,  wild  tossing  in  the 

wind. 
Each  after  each  sank  down  astern,  exhausted  in  the  chase, 
But  where  it  sank  another  rose  and  galloped  in  its  place  ; 


THE   DEMON-SHIP.  387 

As  black  as  night  —  they  turned  to  white,  and  cast  against 

the  cloud 
A  snowy  sheet,  as  if  each  sui'ge  upturned  a  sailor's  shroud  : 
Still  flew  my  boat ;  alas  !  alas  !  her  course  was  nearly  run  ' 
Behold  yon  fatal  billow  rise  —  ten  billows  heaped  in  one  ! 
With  fearful  speed  the  dreary  mass  came  rolling,  rolling  fast, 
As  if  the  scooping  sea  contained  one  only  wave,  at  last ! 
Still  on  it  came,  with  horrid  roar,  a  swift-pursuing  grave ; 
It  seemed  as  though  some  cloud  had  turned  its  hugeness  to 

a  wave ! 
Its  briny  sleet  began  to  beat  beforehand  in  my  face  — 
I  felt  the  rearward  keel  begin  to  climb  its  swelling  base  ! 
I  saw  its  Alpine  hoary  head  impending  over  mine  ! 
Another  pulse,  and  down  it  rushed,  an  avalanche  of  brine  ! 
Brief  pause  had  I,  on  God  to  cry,  or  think  of  wife  and  home ; 
The  waters  closed  —  and  when  I  shiieked.  I  shrieked  below 

the  foam ! 
Beyond  that  rush  I  have  no  hint  of  any  after  deed  — 
For  I  was  tossing  on  the  waste,  as  senseless  as  a  weed. 
****** 

•' '  Where  am  I  ?  in  the  breathing  world,  or  in  the  world  of 

death?"' 
With  sharp  and  sudden  pang  I  di'ew  another  birth  of  breath : 
My  eyes  drank  in  a  doubtful  light,  my  ears  a  doubtful  sound, 
And  was  that  ship  a  7-eal  ship  whose  tackle  seemed  around  7 

A  moon,  as  if  the  earthly  moon,  was  shining  up  aloft ; 
But  were  those  beams  the  very  beams  that  I  had  seen  so  oft  ? 
A  face  that  mocked  the  human  face  before  me  watched  alone  ; 
But  were  those  eyes  the  eyes  of  man  that  looked  against 
my  own? 

0  !  never  may  the  moon  again  disclose  me  such  a  sight 
As  met  my  gaze,  when  first  I  looked  on  that  accursed  night 


388 


THE   DEMON-SHIP. 


I  've  seen  a  thousand  horrid  shapes  begot  of  fierce  extremes 
Of  fever;  and  most  frightful  things  have  haunted  in  my 

dreams  — 
Hyenas,  cats,  blood-loving  bats,  and  apes  with  hateful  stare. 
Pernicious  snakes,  and  shaggy  bulls,  the  lion  and  she-bear, 
Strong  enemies,  with  Judas  looks,  of  treachery  and  spite  — 
Detested  features,  hardly  dimmed  and  banished  by  the  light ! 

Pale-sheeted  ghosts,  with  gory  locks,  upstarting  from  their 

tombs  — 
All  fantasies  and  images  that  flit  in  midnight  glooms  — 
Hags,  goblins,  demons,  lemures,  have  made  me  all  aghast, — 
But  nothing  like  that  Grimly  One  who  stood  beside  the 

mast ! 

His  cheek  was  black  —  his  brow  was  black  —  his  eyes  and 
hair  as  dark  : 

His  hand  was  black,  and  where  it  touched  it  left  a  sable 
mark ; 

His  throat  was  black,  his  vest  the  same,  and  when  I  looked 
beneath. 

His  breast  was  black  —  all,  all  was  black,  except  his  grin- 
ning teeth. 

His  sooty  crew  were  like  in  hue,  as  black  as  Afric  slaves  ! 

0,  horror  !  e'en  the  ship  was  black  that  ploughed  the  inky 
waves ! 

"Alas  !  "  I  cried,  "  for  love  of  truth  and  blessed  mercy's  sake, 
Where  am  I  ]  in  what  dreadful  ship?  upon  what  dreadful  lake  1 
What  shape  is  that,  so  very  grim,  and  black  as  any  coal  ? 
It  is  Mahound,  the  Evil  One,  and  he  has  gained  my  soul ! 
0,  mother  dear !    my  tender  nurse  !    dear  meadows  that 

beguiled 
My  happy  days,  when  I  was  yet  a  little  sinless  child, — 
My  mother  dear  —  my  native  fields,  I  never  more  shall  see 
I'm  sailing  in  the  Devil's  Ship,  upon  the  Devil's  Sea !  " 


SPRING.  3d& 

Loud  laughed  that  Sable  Mariner,  and  loudlj  in  return 
His  sooty  crew  sent  forth  a  laugh  that  rang  from  stem  to 

stern  — 
A  dozen  pair  of  grimly  cheeks  were  crumpled  on  the  nonce  — 
As  many  sets  of  grinning  teeth  came  shining  out  at  once : 
A  dozen  gloomy  shapes  at  once  enjoyed  the  merry  fit, 
With  shriek  and  yell,  and  oaths  as  well,  like  demons  of  the  Pit. 
They  crowed  their  fill,  and  then  the  Chief  made  answer  for 

the  whole ;  — 
"  Our  skins,"  said  he,  "  are  black,  ye  see,  because  we  carry 

coal ; 
You  '11  find  your  mother  sure  enough,  and  see  your  native 

fields  — 
For  this  here  ship  has  picked  you  up  —  the  Mary  Ann  of 

Shields  ! " 


SPRING. 

A  KEW  VERSION. 


"  Ham.  The  air  bites  shrewdly  —  it  is  very  cold. 
Hor.  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air." — Hamlet. 

"  Come,  gentle  Spring  !  ethereal  mildness^  come  !  '' 
0  !  Thomson,  void  of  rhyme  as  well  as  reason, 

How  couldst  thou  thus  poor  human  nature  hum  ? 
There  "s  no  such  season. 

The  Spring  !  I  shrink  and  shudder  at  her  name  ! 

For  why,  I  find  her  breath  a  bitter  blighter  ! 
And  suffer  from  her  bloivs  as  if  they  came 

From  Spring  the  Fighter. 

Her  praises,  then,  let  hardy  poets  sing. 

And  be  her  tuneful  laureates  and  upholders, 

Who  do  not  feel  as  if  they  had  a  Sp?'mg 
Poured  down  their  shoulders  ! 
83* 


890 


SPRING. 


Let  others  eulogize  her  floral  shows ; 

From  me  they  cannot  win  a  single  stanza. 
I  know  her  blooms  are  in  full  blow  —  and  so  's 

The  Influenza. 

Her  cowslips,  stocks,  and  lilies  of  the  vale. 
Her  honey-blossoms  that  you  hear  the  bees  at, 

Her  pansies,  daffodils,  and  primrose  pale. 
Are  things  I  sneeze  at  ! 

Fair  is  the  vernal  quarter  of  the  year ! 

And  fair  its  early  buddings  and  its  blowings  — 
But  just  suppose  Consumption's  seeds  appear 

With  other  sowings  ! 

For  me,  I  find,  when  eastern  winds  are  high, 

A  frigid,  not  a  genial  inspiration  ; 
Nor  can,  like  Iron-Chested  Chubb,  defy 

An  inflammation. 

Smitten  by  breezes  from  the  land  of  plague, 
To  me  all  vernal  luxuries  are  fables, 

0  !  where  's  the  Spring  in  a  rheumatic  leg, 
Stifi"  as  a  table's? 

1  limp  in  agony, —  I  wheeze  and  cough  ; 

And  quake  with  Ague,  that  great  Agitator : 
Nor  dream,  before  July,  of  leaving  off 
My  Respirator. 

What  wonder  if  in  May  itself  I  lack 

A  peg  for  laudatory  verse  to  hang  on  ?  — 

Spring  mild  and  gentle  !  —  yes,  a  Spring-heeled  Jack 
To  those  he  sprang  on. 

In  short,  whatever  panegyrics  lie 

In  fulsome  odes  too  many  to  be  cited, 
The  tenderness  of  Spring  is  all  my  eye. 

And  that  is  blis-hted  ! 


FAITHLESS   NELLY    GRAY.  391 

FAITHLESS    NELLY    GRAY. 

A   PATHETIC   BALLAD. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war's  alarms ; 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 

So  be  laid  down  bis  arms  ! 

Now,  as  tbey  bore  bim  off  tbe  field, 

Said  be,  ' '  Let  otbers  sboot, 
For  bere  I  leave  my  second  leg. 

And  tbe  Forty-second  Foot !  " 

Tbe  army-surgeons  made  bim  limbs  : 

Said  be,  "  Tbey  're  only  pegs  : 
But  tbere  's  as  wooden  members  quite 

As  represent  my  legs  !  " 

Now,  Ben  be  loved  a  pretty  maid. 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray  ; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours. 

When  be  devoured  bis  pay  ! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  bim  quite  a  scoff; 
And  when  she  saw  bis  wooden  leora, 

Began  to  take  them  off! 

"  0,  Nelly  Gray  !  0,  Nelly  Gray 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  7 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform  !  " 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  tbe  grave  ! 


392 


FAITHLESS   NELLY    GRAY. 


"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footint;  now  !  " 

"  0,  Nelly  Gray  !  0,  Nelly  Gray  ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call,  I  left  my  legs, 

In  Badajos's  hreaches  !  " 

"  Why  then,"  said  she,  "  you  've  lost  the  feet 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms. 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms  !  " 

"  0,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  :  — 
Though  I  've  no  feet —  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes  ! 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death ;  — alas 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell !  " 

Now,  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line  ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs, 
And,  as  his  legs  were  off, —  of  course, 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs  ! 


THE    FLOWER.  393 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town. — 
For.  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died  — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

"With  a  stake  in  his  inside ! 


THE    FLOWER. 


Alone,  across  a  foreign  plain, 

The  exile  slowly  wanders, 
And  on  his  isle  beyond  the  main 

With  saddened  spirit  ponders  ; 

This  lovely  isle  beyond  the  sea., 
"With  all  its  household  treasures  j 

Its  cottage  homes,  its  merry  birds, 
And  all  its  rural  pleasures  : 

Its  leafy  woods,  its  shady  vales. 
Its  moors,  and  purple  heather  ; 

Its  verdant  fields  bedecked  with  stars 
His  childhood  loved  to  gather ; 

T\Tien,  lo  !  he  starts,  with  glad  surprise, 
Home-joys  come  rushing  o"er  him, 

For  "modest-,  wee,  and  crimson-tipped," 
He  spies  the  flower  before  him  ! 

"With  eager  haste  he  stoops  him  down, 
His  eyes  with  moisture  hazy, 

And  as  he  plucks  the  simple  bloom 
He  murmurs,  "  Lawk-a-daisy  !  " 


394 


THE   SEA-SPELL. 


THE    SEA-SPELL. 

"  Cauld,  cauld,  he  lies  beneath  the  deep." — Old  Scotch  Baliad. 

It  -was  a  jolly  mariner  ! 

The  tallest  man  of  thi-ee, — 

He  loosed  his  sail  against  the  -svind, 

And  turned  his  boat  to  sea : 

The  ink-black  skj  told  every  eye 

A  storm  was  soon  to  be  ! 

But  still  that  jolly  mariner 

Took  in  no  reef  at  all, 

For,  in  his  pouch,  confidingly, 

He  "wore  a  baby's  caul ; 

A  thing,  as  gossip-nurses  kno-\T, 

That  always  brings  a  squall ! 

TTis  hat  was  new.  or,  newly  glazed, 
Shone  brightly  in  the  sun  ; 
His  jacket,  like  a  mariner's, 
True  blue  as  e'er  was  spun : 
His  ample  trousers,  like  St.  Paul, 
Bore  forty  stripes  save  one. 

And  now  the  fretting,  foaming  tide 

He  steered  away  to  cross ; 

The  bounding  pinnace  played  a  game 

Of  dreary  pitch  and  toss ; 

A  game  that,  on  the  good  dry  land, 

Is  apt  to  bring  a  loss  ! 

Good  Heaven  befriend  that  little  boat, 

And  guide  her  on  her  way  ! 

A  boat,  they  say,  has  canvas  wings, 

But  cannot  fly  away  ! 

Though,  like  a  merry  singing-bird, 

She  sits  upon  the  spray  ! 


THE   SEA-SPELL.  395 

Still  south  by  east  the  little  boat, 

With  tawny  sail,  kept  beating  : 

Now  out  of  sight,  between  t^yo  waves, 

Now  o'er  the  horizon  fleeting; 

Like  greedy  swine  that  feed  on  mast, — 

The  waves  her  mast  seemed  eating  ! 

The  sullen  sky  grew  black  above, 

The  wave  as  black  beneath ; 

Each  roaring  billow  showed  full  soon 

A  white  and  foamy  wreath ; 

Like  angry  dogs  that  snarl  at  first, 

And  then  display  their  teeth. 

The  boatman  looked  against  the  wind. 

The  mast  began  to  creak, 

The  wave,  per  saltum,  came  and  dried, 

Li  salt,  upon  his  cheek  ! 

The  pointed  wave  against  him  reared, 

As  if  it  owned  a  pique  ! 

Nor  rushing  wind  nor  gushing  wave 

The  boatman  could  alarm, 

But  still  he  stood  away  to  sea, 

And  trusted  in  his  charm ; 

He  thought  by  purchase  he  was  safe, 

And  armed  against  all  harm  ! 

Now  thick  and  fast  and  far  aslant 
The  stormy  rain  came  pouring, 
He  heard,  upon  the  sandy  bank. 
The  distant  breakers  roaring, — 
A  groaning;  intermitting  sound, 
Like  Gog  and  Magog  snoring  ! 

The  sea-fowl  shrieked  around  the  mast, 
Ahead  the  grampus  tumbled, 


396  THE   SEA-SPELL. 

And  far  off,  from  a  copper  cloud, 
The  hollow  thunder  rumbled ; 
It  would  have  quailed  another  heart, 
But  his  "was  never  humbled. 

For  why  7  he  had  that  infant's  caul ; 
And  wherefore  should  he  dread  7 
Alas  !  alas  !  he  little  thought, 
Before  the  ebb-tide  sped, — 
That,  like  that  infant,  he  should  die, 
And  with  a  watery  head  ! 

The  rushing  brine  flowed  in  apace  ; 

His  boat  had  ne'er  a  deck  : 

Fate  seemed  to  call  him  on,  and  he 

Attended  to  her  beck  ; 

And  so  he  went,  still  trusting  on. 

Though  reckless  —  to  his  wreck  ! 

For  as  he  left  his  helm,  to  heave 

The  ballast-bags  a-weather. 

Three  monstrous  seas  came  roaring  on, 

Like  lions  leao-ued  toorether. 

The  two  first  waves  the  little  boat 

Swam  over  like  a  feather, — 

The  two  first  waves  were  past  and  gone, 

And  sinking  in  her  wake  ; 

The  hugest  still  came  leaping  on. 

And  hissing  like  a  snake. 

Now  helm  a-lee  !  for  through  the  midst 

The  monster  he  must  take  ! 

Ah,  me  !  it  was  a  dreary  mount ! 
Its  base  as  black  as  night, 
Its  top  of  pale  and  li\ad  green. 
Its  crest  of  awful  white,  \ 


THE   SEA-SPELL.  397 


Like  Neptune  with  a  leprosy, — 
And  so  it  reared  upright ! 

With  quaking  sails  the  little  boat 
Climbed  up  the  foaming  heap  ; 
With  quaking  sails  it  paused  a  while, 
At  balance  on  the  steep  ; 
Then,  rushing  down  the  nether  slope, 
Plunged  with  a  dizzj  sweep  ! 

Look,  how  a  horse,  made  mad  with  fear, 

Disdains  his  careful  guide  ; 

So  now  the  headlong  headstrong  boat, 

Unmanaged,  turns  aside, 

And  straight  presents  her  reeling  flank 

Against  the  swelling  tide  ! 

The  gustj  wind  assaults  the  sail ; 
Her  ballast  lies  a-lee  ! 
The  sheet  "s  to  windward  taut  and  stifl^ 
0  !  the  Lively  —  where  is  she  ? 
Her  capsized  keel  is  in  the  foam. 
Her  pennon  's  in  the  sea  ! 

The  wild  gull,  sailing  overhead, 
Thi-ee  times  beheld  emerge 
The  head  of  that  bold  mariner, 
And  then  she  screamed  his  dirge  ! 
For  he  had  sunk  within  his  grave, 
Lapped  in  a  shroud  of  surge  ! 

The  ensuing  wave,  with  horrid  foam, 
Rushed  o'er  and  covered  all ; 
The  jolly  boatman's  drowning  scream 
Was  smothered  by  the  squall. 
Heaven  never  heard  his  cry,  nor  did 
The  ocean  heed  his  caul. 
34 


398 


A  sailor's  apology  for  bow-legs. 


A  SAILOR'S  APOLOGY  FOR  BOW-LEGS. 

There  's  some  is  born  -with  their  straight  legs  by  natur  — 

And  some  is  born  with  bow-legs  from  the  first  — 

And  some  that  should  have  growed  a  good  deal  straighter, 

But  they  were  badly  nursed, 
And  set,  you  see,  like  Bacchus,  with  their  pegs 

Astride  of  casks  and  kegs  : 
I  've  got  myself  a  sort  of  bow  to  larboard, 

And  starboard, 
And  this  is  what  it  was  that  warped  my  legs. — 

'T  was  all  along  of  Poll,  as  I  may  say, 
That  fouled  my  cable  when  I  ought  to  slip ; 
But  on  the  tenth  of  May, 
When  I  gets  under  weigh, 
Down  there  in  Hartfordshire,  to  join  my  ship, 

I  sees  the  mail 

Get  under  sail. 
The  only  one  there  was  to  make  the  trip. 

Well  —  I  gives  chase, 

But  as  she  run 

Two  knots  to  one. 
There  warn't  no  use  in  keeping  on  the  race  ! 

Well  —  casting  round  about,  what  next  to  try  on, 

And  how  to  spin, 
I  spies  an  ensign  with  a  Bloody  Lion, 
And  bears  away  to  leeward  for  the  inn, 

Beats  round  the  gable. 
And  fetches  up  before  the  coach-horse  stable  : 
Well  —  there  they  stand,  four  kickers  m  a  row, 

And  so 
I  just  makes  free  to  cut  a  brown  'un's  cable. 
But  riding  isn't  in  a  seaman's  natur  — 
So  I  whips  out  a  toughish  end  of  yarn, 


A  sailor's  apology  for  bow-legs.  399 

And  gets  a  kind  of  sort  of  a  land- waiter 

To  splice  me,  heel  to  heel, 

Under  the  she-mare"  s  keel, 
And  off  I  goes,  and  leaves  the  inn  a-starn . 

My  eyes  !  how  she  did  pitch  ! 
And  would  n"t  keep  her  own  to  go  in  no  line, 
Though  I  kept  bowsing,  bowsing  at  her  bow-line, 
But  always  making  lee-way  to  the  ditch. 
And  yawed  her  head  about  all  sorts  of  ways. 

The  devil  sink  the  craft ! 
And  was  n't  she  trimendous  slack  in  stays  ! 
We  could  n't.  nohow,  keep  the  inn  abaft ! 

Well  —  I  suppose 
We  had  n't  run  a  knot  —  or  much  beyond  — 
(What  will  you  have  on  it  7)  —  but  off  she  goes, 
Up  to  her  bends  in  a  fresh-water  jjond  ! 

There  I  am  !  —  all  a-back  ! 
So  I  looks  forward  for  her  bridle-gears, 
To  heave  her  head  round  on  the  t'other  tack ; 

But  when  I  starts. 

The  leather  parts. 
And  goes  away  right  over  by  the  ears  ! 

What  could  a  fellow  do. 
Whose  legs,  like  mine,  you  know,  were  in  the  bilboes, 
But  trim  myself  upright  for  bringing-to. 
And  square  his  yard-arms,  and  brace  up  his  elbows, 

Li  rig  all  snug  and  clever, 
Just  while  his  craft  was  taking  in  her  water  1 
I  did  n't  like  my  berth,  though,  howsomedever. 
Because  the  yarn,  you  see,  kept  getting  tauter, — 
Says  I  —  I  wish  this  job  was  rather  shorter  ! 

The  chase  had  gained  a  mile 
Ahead,  and  still  the  she-mare  .^tood  a-drinkinsc : 


400  THE    bachelor's    DREAM. 

Now,  all  the  while 
Her  body  did  n"t  take  of  course  to  shrinking. 
Says  I,  she  's  letting  out  her  reefs,  I'm  thinking - 

And  so  she  swelled,  and  swelled, 

And  yet  the  tackle  held, 
Till  both  my  legs  began  to  bend  like  winkin. 

My  eyes  !  but  she  took  in  enough  to  founder  ! 
And  there  's  my  timbers  straining  every  bit. 

Ready  to  split. 
And  her  tarnation  hull  a-growing  rounder  ! 

Well,  there  —  oflF  Hartford  Ness, 
We  lay  both  lashed  and  water-logged  together, 

And  can't  contrive  a  signal  of  distress  ; 
Thinks  I,  we  must  ride  out  this  here  foul  weather, 
Though  sick  of  riding  out  —  and  nothing  less  ; 
When,  looking  round,  I  sees  a  man  a-starn  :  — 
Hollo  !  says  I,  come  underneath  her  quarter  !  — 
And  hands  him  out  my  knife  to  cut  the  yarn. 
So  I  gets  off,  and  lands  upon  the  road. 
And  leaves  the  she-mare  to  her  own  consarn, 

A-standing  by  the  water. 
K  I  get  on  another,  I  '11  be  blowed  !  — 
And  that 's  the  way,  you  see,  my  legs  got  bowed  ! 


THE  BACHELOR'S  DREAM. 

My  pipe  is  lit,  my  grog  is  mixed, 
My  curtains  drawn  and  all  is  snug ; 
Old  Puss  is  in  her  elbow-chair. 
And  Tray  is  sitting  on  the  rug. 
Last  night  I  had  a  curious  dream. 
Miss  Susan  Bates  was  Mistress  Mogg  ■ 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  7 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  1 


THE    bachelor's   DREAM.  'iOl 

She  looked  so  fair,  she  sang  so  well, 
I  could  but  woo  and  she  was  won ; 
Myself  in  blue,  the  bride  in  white, 
The  ring  was  placed,  the  deed  was  done! 
Away  we  went  in  chaise-and-four. 
As  fast  as  grinning  boys  could  flog  — 
What  d"  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  1 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 

What  loving  tete-a-tetes  to  come  ! 
But  tete-a-tetes  must  still  defer  ! 
When  Susan  came  to  live  with  me, 
Her  mother  came  to  live  with  her ! 
With  sister  Belle  she  could  n't  part, 
But  all  ?ny  ties  had  leave  to  jog  — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  7 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

The  mother  brought  a  pretty  Poll — 
A  monkey  too,  what  work  he  made  ! 
The  sister  introduced  a  beau  — 
My  Susan  brought  a  favorite  maid. 
She  had  a  tabby  of  her  own, — 
A  snappish  mongrel  christened  Gog, — 
What  d'  ye  tliink  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 

The  monkey  1;)it  —  the  parrot  screamed, 
All  day  the  sister  strummed  and  sung ; 
The  petted  maid  was  such  a  scold  ! 
My  Susan  learned  to  use  her  tongue  ; 
Her  mother  had  such  wretched  health,    - 
She  sate  and  croaked  like  any  frog  — 
What  d*  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  7 
What  d"  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 
3-i* 


402 


THE   bachelor's  DREAM. 


No  longer  Deary,  Duck,  and  Love, 
I  soon  came  down  to  simple  "  M  !  " 
The  very  servants  crossed  my  wish, 
My  Susan  let  me  down  to  them. 
The  poker  hardly  seemed  my  own, 
I  might  as  well  have  been  a  log  — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 

My  clothes  they  were  the  queerest  shape  ! 
Such  coats  and  hats  she  never  met ! 
My  ways  they  were  the  oddest  ways  ! 
My  friends  were  such  a  vulgar  set ! 
Poor  Tompkinson  was  snubbed  and  huffedj 
She  could  not  bear  that  Mister  Blogg  — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

At  times  we  had  a  spar,  and  then 
Mamma  must  mingle  in  the  song  — 
The  sister  took  a  sister's  part  — 
The  maid  declared  her  master  wrong  — 
The  parrot  learned  to  call  me  ''  Fool !  " 
My  life  was  like  a  London  fog  — 
Wliat  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  1 

My  Susan's  taste  was  superfine. 
As  proved  by  bills  that  had  no  end ; 
/  never  had  a  decent  coat  — 
/  never  had  a  coin  to  spend  ! 
She  forced  me  to  resign  my  club. 
Lay  down  my  pipe,  retrench  my  grog  — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d"  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 


THE    WEE    MAX.  403 

Each  Sunday  night  we  gave  a  rout 
To  fops  and  flirts,  a  pretty  list ; 
And  when  I  tried  to  steal  away, 
I  found  my  study  full  of  whist ! 
Then,  first  to  come,  and  last  to  go, 
There  always  was  a  Captain  Hogg  — ■ 
Wliat  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  7 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 

Now  was  not  that  an  awful  dream 
For  one  who  single  is  and  snug  — 
With  Pussy  in  the  elbow-chair, 
And  Tray  reposing  on  the  rug  1  — 
If  I  must  totter  down  the  hill, 
'T  is  safest  done  without  a  clog  — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  7 


THE  WEE  MAN. 

A    ROllAXCE. 

It  was  a  merry  company, 
And  they  were  just  afloat, 

When,  lo  !  a  man,  of  dwarfish  span, 
Came  up  and  hailed  the  boat. 

"  Good-morrow  to  ye,  gentle  folks, 
And  will  you  let  me  in  7  — 

A  slender  space  will  serve  my  case, 
For  I  am  small  and  thin." 

They  saw  he  was  a  dwarfish  man, 
And  very  small  and  thin ; 

Not  seven  such  would  matter  much, 
And  so  thev  took  him  in. 


404 


THE   WEB   MAN. 


They  laughed  to  see  his  little  hat, 

With  such  a  narrow  brim ; 
They  laughed  to  note  his  dapper  coat, 

With  skirts  so  scant  and  trim. 

But  barely  had  they  gone  a  mile, 

When,  gravely,  one  and  all 
At  once  began  to  think  the  man 

Was  not  so  very  small. 

His  coat  had  got  a  broader  skirt, 

His  hat  a  broader  biim, 
His  leg  grew  stout,  and  soon  plumped  out 

A  very  proper  limb. 

Still  on  they  went,  and  as  they  went 
More  rough  the  billows  grew, — 

And  rose  and  fell,  a  greater  swell, 
And  he  was  swelling  too  ! 

And,  lo  !  where  room  had  been  for  seven, 

For  six  there  scarce  was  space  ! 
For  five !  — for  four !  —  for  three !  — not  more 

Than  two  could  find  a  place  ! 

There  was  not  even  room  for  one  ! 

They  crowded  by  degrees  — 
Ay  —  closer  yet,  till  elbows  met. 

And  knees  were  iooi;s;ina;  knees. 

"  Good  sir,  you  must  not  sit  astern, 

The  wave  will  else  come  in !  " 
Without  a  word  he  gravely  stirred. 

Another  seat  to  win. 

"  Good  sir,  the  boat  has  lost  her  trim. 

You  must  not  sit  a-lee  !  " 
With  smiling  face  and  courteous  grace, 

The  middle  seat  took  he. 


death's  ramble.  405 

But  still,  bj  constant  quiet  growth, 

His  back  became  so  wide, 
Each  neighbor  wight,  to  left  and  right, 

"Was  thrust  against  the  side. 

Lord  !  how  they  chided  with  themselves, 

That  they  had  let  him  in  ! 
To  see  him  grow  so  monstrous  now. 

That  came  so  small  and  thin. 

On  every  brow  a  dew-drop  stood. 

They  grew  so  scared  and  hot, — 
"  I'  the  name  of  all  that  's  great  and  tall, 

"Who  are  ye,  sir,  and  what  7  " 

Loud  laughed  the  Gogmagog,  a  laugh 

As  loud  as  giant's  roar  — 
"  When  fii'st  I  came,  my  proper  name 

"Waa  Little  —  now  I  'm  Moore !  " 


DEATH'S  RA^IBLE. 


One  day  the  dreary  old  King  of  Death 
Inclined  for  some  sport  with  the  carnal, 

So  he  tied  a  pack  of  darts  on  his  back, 
And  quietly  stole  from  his  charnel. 

His  head  waa  bald  of  flesh  and  of  hair, 

His  body  was  lean  and  lank  ; 
His  joints  at  each  stir  made  a  crack,  and  the  cur 

Took  a  gnaw,  by  the  way,  at  his  shank. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  his  deadly  darts. 

This  goblin  of  grisly  bone  7 
He  dabbled  and  spilled  man's  blood,  and  he  killed 

Like  a  butcher  that  kills  his  own. 


i06  death's  ramble. 

The  first  he  slaughtered  it  made  him  laugh, 

(For  the  man  was  a  coffin-maker,) 
To  think  how  the  mutes,  and  men  in  black  suits, 

Would  mourn  for  an  undertaker. 

Death  saw  two  Quakers  sitting  at  church  ; 

Quoth  he,  "  We  shall  not  differ." 
And  he  let  them  alone,  like  figures  of  stone, 

For  he  could  not  make  them  stiffer. 

He  saw  two  duellists  going  to  fight, 

In  fear  they  could  not  smother ; 
And  he  shot  one  through  at  once  —  for  he  knew 

They  never  would  shoot  each  other. 

He  saw  a  watchman  fast  in  his  box, 

And  he  gave  a  snore  infernal ; 
Said  Death,  "  He  may  keep  his  breath,  for  his  sleep 

Can  never  be  more  eternal." 

He  met  a  coachman  di-iving  a  coach 

So  slow  that  his  fare  grew  sick : 
But  he  let  him  stray  on  his  tedious  way, 

For  Death  only  wars  on  the  quick. 

Death  saw  a  tollman  taking  a  toll. 

In  the  spirit  of  his  fraternity ; 
But  be  knew  that  sort  of  man  would  extort, 

Though  summoned  to  all  eternity. 

He  found  an  author  writing  his  life, 

But  he  let  him  write  no  fui'ther ; 
For  Death,  who  strikes  whenever  he  likes, 

Is  jealous  of  all  self-mui'ther  ! 

Death  saw  a  patient  that  pulled  out  his  purse, 

And  a  doctor  that  took  the  sum ; 
But  he  let  them  be  — for  he  knew  that  the  "  fee'' 

Was  a  prelude  to  "  faw  "  and  "  fum." 


THE    PROGRESS    OF   ART. 

He  met  a  dustman  rincrinor  a  bell, 
And  he  gave  him  a  mortal  thrust ; 

For  himself,  bj  law,  since  Adam's  flaw, 
Is  contractor  for  all  our  dust. 

He  saw  a  sailor  mixing  his  grog, 

And  he  marked  him  out  for  slaughter  ; 

For  on  water  he  scarcely  had  cared  for  death, 
And  never  on  rum-and-water. 

Death  saw  two  players  playing  at  cards, 
But  the  game  was  n't  worth  a  dump, 

For  he  quickly  laid  them  flat  with  a  spade, 
To  wait  for  the  final  trump  ! 


407 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ART. 

0  HAPPY  time  !  —  Art's  early  days  ! 
When  o'er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise^ 

Narcissus-like  I  hun^ ! 
When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seemed. 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deemed 

As  nothing  to  the  young  ! 

Some  scratchy  strokes  —  abrupt  and  few, 
So  easily  and  swift  I  drew, 

Sufiieed  for  my  design  ; 
My  sketchy,  supei"ficial  hand. 
Drew  solids  at  a  dash  —  and  spanned 

A  surface  with  a  line. 

Not  long  my  eye  was  thus  content, 

But  grew  more  critical  —  my  bent 

Essayed  a  higher  walk  : 

1  copied  leaden  eyes  in  lead  — 
Rheumatic  hands  in  white  and  red, 

And  gouty  feet  —  in  chalk. 


n) 


408  THE   PROGRESS    OF   ART. 

Anon  my  studious  art  for  days 
Kept  making  faces  —  tappy  phrase, 

For  faces  such  as  mine  ! 
Accomplished  in  the  details  then, 
I  left  the  minor  parts  of  men, 

And  drew  the  form  divine. 

Old  gods  and  heroes — Trojan — Greek, 
Figures — long  after  the  antique, 

Great  Ajax  justly  feared  ; 
Hectors,  of  whom  at  night  I  dreamt, 
And  Nestor,  fringed  enough  to  tempt 

Bird-nesters  to  his  beard. 

A  Bacchus,  leering  on  a  bowl, 
A  Pallas,  that  out-stared  her  owl, 

A  Vulcan  —  very  lame  ; 
A  Dian  stuck  about  with  stars. 
With  my  right  hand  I  murdered  Mars  — 

(One  Williams  did  the  same.) 

But  tired  of  this  dry  work  at  last. 
Crayon  and  chalk  aside  I  cast. 

And  gave  my  brush  a  di'ink '} 
Dipping — "as  when  a  painter  dips 
In  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse," — 

That  is —  in  Indian  ink. 

0  then,  what  black  Mont  Blancs  arose. 
Crested  with  soot,  and  not  with  snows  : 

What  clouds  of  dingy  hue  ! 
In  spite  of  what  the  bard  has  penned, 

1  fear  the  distance  did  not  '  •'  lend 

Enchantment  to  the  \aew." 

Not  Radclyffe's  brush  did  e"er  design 
Black  forests  half  so  black  as  mine, 


409 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   ART. 

Or  lakes  so  like  a  pall ; 
The  Chinese  cake  dispersed  a  ray 
Of  darkness,  like  the  light  of  Day 

And  Martin,  over  all. 
Yet  urchin  pride  sustained  me  still ; 
I  gazed  on  all  with  right  good  Avill, 

And  spread  the  dingy  tint ;  ^ 
"  No  holy  Luke  helped  me  to  paint ; 
The  Devil,  surely  not  a  Saint, 
Had  any  finger  in't!  " 
But  colors  came  !  —like  morning  light, 
With  gorgeous  hues  displacing  night, 

Or  Spring's  enlivened  scene: 
At  once  the  sable  shades  withdrew ; 
My  skies  got  very,  very  blue ; 
My  trees,  extremely  green. 

And,  washed  by  my  cosmetic  brush, 
How  Beauty's  cheek  began  to  blush  ! 

With  lock  of  auburn  stain  — 
(Not  Goldsmith's  Auburn) —nut-brown  hair, 
That  made  her  loveliest  of  the  fair ; 

Not  "  loveliest  of  the  plain !  " 

Her  lips  were  of  vermilion  hue ; 
Love  in  her  eyes,  and  Prussian  blue, 

Set  all  my  heart  in  flame  ! 
A  young  Pygmalion,  I  adored 
The  maids  I  made  — but  time  was  stored 

With  evil  —  and  it  came  ! 
Perspective  dawned  —  and  soon  I  saw 
My  houses  stand  against  its  law  ; 

And  "  keeping  "  all  unkept ! 
35 


410  A    FAIRY    TALE. 

My  beauties  were  no  longer  things 
For  love  and  fond  imaginings ; 
But  horrors  to  be  wept ! 

Ah  !  why  did  knowledge  ope  my  eyes  ? 
Why  did  I  get  more  artist-wise  ? 

It  only  serves  to  hint 
What  grave  defects  and  wants  are  mine  ; 
That  I  'm  no  Hilton  in  design — 

In  nature  no  Dewint ! 

Thrice  happy  time  !  —  Art's  early  days  ! 
When  o'er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise. 

Narcissus-like  I  hung ! 
When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seemed, 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deemed 

As  nothing  to  the  young  ! 


A  FAIRY  TALE. 

On  Hounslow  heath  —  and  close  beside  the  road, 
As  western  travellers  may  oft  have  seen, — 
A  little  house  some  years  ago  there  stood, 

A  minikin  abode ; 
And  built  like  Mr.  Birkbeck's,  all  of  wood  ; 
The  walls  of  white,  the  window-shutters  green ;  — 
Four  wheels  it  had  at  North,  South,  East,  and  West, 

(Though  now  at  rest,) 
On  which  it  used  to  wander  to  and  fro, 
Because  its  master  ne'er  maintained  a  rider, 
Like  those  who  trade  in  Paternoster  Row ; 
But  made  his  business  travel  for  itself. 

Till  he  had  made  his  pelf, 
And  then  retired  —  if  one  may  call  it  so. 

Of  a  roadsider. 


rz^J 


A   FAIRY   TALE. 


411 


Perchance,  the  very  race  and  constant  riot 
Of  stages,  long  and  short,  which  thereby  ran, 
Made  him  more  relish  the  repose  and  quiet 

Of  his  now  sedentary  caravan  ; 
Perchance,  he  loved  the  ground  because  't  was  common, 
And  so  he  might  impale  a  strip  of  soil, 

That  furnished,  by  his  toil, 
Some  dusty  greens,  for  him  and  his  old  woman ;  — 
And  five  tall  hollyhocks,  in  dingy  flower. 
Howbeit,  the  thoroughfare  did  no  ways  spoil 
His  peace, —  unless,  in  some  unlucky  hour, 
A  stray  horse  came  and  gobbled  up  his  bower  ! 

But,  tired  of  always  looking  at  the  coaches. 

The  same  to  come,—  when  they  had  seen  them  one  day ! 

And,  used  to  brisker  life,  both  man  and  wife 
Began  to  suffer  N  U  E's  approaches, 
And  feel  retirement  like  a  long  wet  Sunday, — 
So,  having  had  some  quarters  of  school-breeding. 
They  turned  themselves,  like  other  folks,  to  readuag ; 
But  setting  out  Avhere  others  nigh  have  done, 
And  being  ripened  in  the  seventh  stage. 
The  childhood  of  old  age, 
Began,  as  other  children  have  begun, — 
Not  with  the  pastorals  of  Mr.  Pope, 

Or  Bard  of  Hope, 
Or  Paley  ethical,  or  learned  Porson, — 
But  spelt,  on  Sabbaths,  in  St.  Mark,  or  John, 
•  And  then  relaxed  themselves  with  Whittington, 

Or  Valentine  and  Orson  — 
But  chiefly  fairy  tales  they  loved  to  con, 
And  being  easily  melted  in  their  dotage, 
Slobbered, —  and  kept 
Reading, —  and  wept 
Over  the  White  Cat,  in  their  wooden  cottage. 


412  A   FAIRY  TALE. 

Thus  reading  on  —  the  longer 
They  read,  of  course,  their  childish  faith  grew  stronger 
In  Gnomes,  and  Hags,  and  Elves,  and  Giants  grim, — 
If  talking  trees  and  birds  revealed  to  him. 
She  saw  the  flight  of  Fairyland's  fly- wagons. 

And  magic  fishes  swim 
In  puddle  ponds,  and  took  old  crows  for  dragons, — 
Both  were  quite  drunk  from  the  enchanted  flagons ; 
When,  as  it  fell  upon  a  summer's  day. 
As  the  old  man  sat  a  feeding 

On  the  old  babe-reading, 
Beside  his  open  street-and-parlor  door, 

A  hideous  roar 
Proclaimed  a  di-ove  of  beasts  was  coming  by  the  way. 

Long-horned,  and  short,  of  many  a  different  breed, 
Tall,  tawny  brutes,  from  famous  Lincoln-levels, 

Or  Durham  feed. 
With  some  of  those  unquiet  black  dwarf  devils, 

From  nether  side  of  Tweed, 

Or  Firth  of  Forth ; 
Looking  half  wild  with  joy  to  leave  the  North, — 
With  dusty  hides,  all  mobbing  on  together, — 
When, —  whether  from  a  fly's  malicious  comment 
Upon  his  tender  flank,  from  which  he  shrank ; 

Or  whether 
Only  in  some  enthusiastic  moment, — 
However,  one  brown  monster,  in  a  frisk. 
Giving  his  tale  a  perpendicular  whisk,  . 

Kicked  out  a  passage  through  the  beastly  rabble ; 
And  after  a  pas  seul, —  or,  if  you  will,  a 
Hornpipe  before  the  basket-maker's  villa. 

Leapt  o'er  the  tiny  pale, — 
Backed  his  beef-steaks  against  the  wooden  gable, 
And  thrust  his  brawny  bell-rope  of  a  tail 


A   FAIKT   TALE. 


413 


Bight  o'er  the  page 
Wherein  the  sage 
Just  then  Avas  spelling  some  romantic  fable. 

The  old  man,  half  a  scholar,  half  a  dunce, 

Could  not  peruse  —  who  could?  —  two  tales  at  once ; 

And  being  huffed 
At  what  he  knew  was  none  of  Riquet's  Tuft, 

Banged-to  the  door, 
But  most  unluckily  enclosed  a  morsel 
Of  the  intruding  tail,  and  all  the  tassel :  — 

The  monster  gave  a  roar, 
And  bolting  off  with  speed,  increased  by  pain, 
The  little  house  became  a  coach  once  more, 
And,  like  Macheath,  ''  took  to  the  road  "  again ! 

Just  then,  by  fortune's  whimsical  decree, 
The  ancient  woman  stooping  with  her  crupper 
Towards  sweet  home,  or  where  sweet  home  should  bej 
"Was  setting  up  some  household  herbs  for  supper  : 
Thoughtful  of  Cinderella,  in  the  tale, 
And  quaintly  wondering  if  magic  shifts 
Could  o'er  a  common  pumpkin  so  prevail, 
To  turn  it  to  a  coach, —  what  pretty  gifts 
Might  come  of  cabbages,  and  curly  kale  : 
Meanwhile  she  never  heard  her  old  man's  wail, 
iSTor  turned,  till  home  had  turned  a  corner,  quite 
Gone  out  of  sight ! 

At  last,  conceive  her,  rising  from  the  ground, 
Weary  of  sitting  on  her  russet  clothing  ; 
And  looking  round 
Where  rest  was  to  be  found. 
There  was  no  house  —  no  villa  there  —  no  nothing  ! 
No  house  ! 
35* 


414  THE   TUKTLES. 

The  change  was  quite  amazing ; 
It  made  her  senses  stagger  for  a  minute, 
The  riddle's  explication  seemed  to  harden  ; 
But  soon  her  superannuated  nous 
Explained  the  horrid  mystery  :  —  and  raising 
.    Her  hand  to  heaven,  -with  the  cabbage  in  it, 

On  which  she  meant  to  sup,*— 
"  Well  !  this  is  Fairy  Work  !  I  "ll  bet  a  farden, 
Little  Prince  Silverwings  has  ketched  me  up, 
And  set  me  down  in  some  one  else's  garden  !  " 


THE  TUKTLES. 


The  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love^of  the  turtle." — Btron. 

One  day,  it  was  before  a  civic  dinner, 

Two  London  Aldermen,  no  matter  which, — 
Cordwainer.  Girdler,  Pattern-maker.  Skinner,— 

But  both  were  florid,  corpulent,  and  rich. 
And  both  right  fond  of  festive  demolition, 

Set  forth  upon  a  secret  expedition. 
Yet  not,  as  might  be  foncied  from  the  token, 

To  Pudding  Lane,  Pie  Corner,  or  the  Street 
Of  Bread,  or  Grub,  or  anything  to  eat. 
Or  drink,  as  Milk,  or  Vintry.  or  Portsoken, 
But  eastward  to  that  more  aquatic  quarter, 

Where  folks  take  water. 
Or.  bound  on  voyages,  secure  a  berth 
For  Antwerp  or  Ostend,  Dundee  or  Perth, 
Calais,  Boulogne,  or  any  port  on  earth  ! 

Jostled  and  jostling,  through  the  mud. 
Peculiar  to  the  town  of  Lud, 
Down  narrow  streets  and  crooked  lanes  they  dived, 


THE  TURTLES.  ^l*^ 


Past  many  a  gusty  avenue,  through  vrhich 
Came  yellow  fog,  and  smell  of  pitch, 
From  barge,  and  boat,  and  dusky  wharf  derived  ; 
With  darker  fumes,  brought  eddying  by  the  draught, 

From  loco-smoko-mOtive  craft ; 
Mingling  with  scents  of  butter,  cheese,  and  gammons, 
Tea,  coffee,  sugar,  pickles,  rosin,  wax, 
Hides,  tallow,  Russia-matting,  hemp  and  flax. 
Salt-cod,  red-herrings,  sprats,  and  kippered  salmons, 

Nuts,  oranges,  and  lemons. 
Each  pungent  spice,  and  aromatic  gum, 
Gas,  pepper,  soaplees,  brandy,  gin,  and  rum  ; 
Alamode-beef  and  greens  —  the  London  soil  — 
Glue,  coal,  tobacco,  turpentine,  and  oil, 
Bark,  asafoetida,  squills,  vitriol,  hops, 
In  short,  all  whiflfs,  and  sniffs,  and  puffs,  and  snuffs, 
From  metals,  minerals,  and  dyewood  stuffs. 
Fruits,  victual,  drink,  solidities,  or  slops  — 
In  flasks,  casks,  bales,  trucks,  wagons,  taverns,  shops, 
Boats,  lighters,  cellars,  wharfs,  and  warehouse-tops, 
That,  as  we  walk  upon  the  river's  ridge. 
Assault  the  nose  — below  the  bridge. 
A  walk,  however,  as  tradition  tells, 
That  once' a  poor  blind  Tobit  used  to  choose, 
Because,  incapable  of  other  views. 

He  met  with  "  such  a  sight  of  smells." 

But  on.  and  on,  and  on. 
In  spite  of  all  unsavory  shocks, 

Progress  the  stout  Sir  Peter  and  Sir  John, 
SteadiFy  steering  ship-like  for  the  docks  — 
And  now  they  reach  a  place  the  Muse,  unwiUmg, 
Recalls  for  female  slang  and  vulgar  douig, 
The  famous  Gate  of  Billing 
That  does  not  lead  to  cooing  — 


416  THE   TURTLES. 

And  now  they  pass  that  house  that  is  so  ugly 
A  customer  to  people  looking  smuggVy  — 
And  novr  along  that  fotal  hill  they  pass 
Where  centuries  ago  an  Oxford  bled, 
And  proved  —  too  late  to  save  his  life,  alas  !  — 
That  he  was  "  off  his  head." 

At  last  before  a  lofty  brick-built  pile 

Sir  Peter  stopped,  and  with  mysterious  smile 

Tinkled  a  bell  that  served  to  bring 

The  wire-drawn  genius  of  the  ring, 

A  species  of  commercial  Samuel  Weller  — 

To  whom  Sir  Peter,  tipping  him  a  wink, 

And  something  else  to  di'ink, 

"  Show  us  the  cellar." 

Obsequious  bowed  the  man.  and  led  the  way 
Down  sundry  flights  of  stairs,  where  windows  small, 
Dapplal  with  mud,  let  in  a  dingy  ray  — 
A  dirty  tax,  if  they  were  taxed  at  all. 
At  length  they  came  into  a  cellar  damp, 
»  "With  venerable  cobwebs  fringed  around, 

A  cellar  of  that  stamp 
Which  often  harbors  vintages  renowned. 
The  feudal  Hock,  or  Burgundy  the  courtly. 

With  sherry,  brown  or  golden, 

Or  port,  so  olden. 
Bereft  of  body  't  is  no  longer  portly  — 
But  old  or  otherwise  —  to  be  veracious  — 
That  cobwebbed  cellar,  damp,  and  dim.  and  spacious 

Held  nothing  crusty  —  but  crustaceous. 

Prone  on  the  chilly  floor. 
Five  splendid  turtles  —  such  a  five  ! 
Natives  of  some  West  Indian  shore, 

Were  flapping  all  alive, 


THE   TURTLES. 


417 


Late  landed  from  the  Jolly  Planter's  yawl  — 
A  sight  whereon  the  dignitaries  fixed 
Their  eager  eyes,  with  ecstasy  unmixed, 

Like  fathers  that  behold  their  infants  crawl, 

Enjoying  every  little  kick  and  sprawl. 

Nay  _  for  from  flitherly  the  thoughts  they  bred,      •  • 

Poor  loggerheads  from  far  Ascension  ferried  ! 

The  Aldermen  too  plainly  wished  them  dead 
And  Aldermanbury'd  ! 

"  There  !  "  cried  Sii'  Peter,  with  an  air 

Triumphant  as  an  ancient  victor's, 

And  pointing  to  the  creatures  rich  and  rare, 
"  There 's  picters  ! 

' '  Talk  of  Olympic  Games !  They  're  not  worth  mention ; 
The  real  prize  for  wrestling  is  when  Jack, 

In  Providence  or  Ascension, 
Can  throw  a  lively  turtle  on  its  back  !  " 

"  Ay  !  "  cried  Sir  John,  and  with  a  score  of  nods, 
Thoughtful  of  classical  symposium, 

'•  There  "s  food  for  gods  ! 
There 's  nectar  !  there 's  ambrosium  ! 
There 's  food  for  Roman  emperors  to  eat  — 

0,  there  had  been  a  treat 
(Those  ancient  names  will  sometimes  hobble  us) 

For  Helio-gobble-us  ! 

"  There  were  a  feast  for  Alexander's  Feast ! 

The  real  sort  —  none  of  your  mock  or  spurious  !  " 

And  then  he  mentioned  Aldermen  deceased, 

And  "  Epicurius," 
And  how  Tertullian  had  enjoyed  such  foison  ; 
And  speculated  on  that  verdigrease 

That  is  n't  poison. 


418  THE   TURTLES. 

"  Talk  of  jour  Spring,  and  verdure,  and  all  that ! 

Give  me  green  fat ! 
As  for  jour  poets  with  their  groves  of  myrtles 

And  billing  turtles, 
Give  me,  for  poetry,  them  Turtles  there, 

A-billing  in  a  bill  of  fare  ! 

"  Of  all  the  things  I  ever  swallow  — 
Good,  well-dressed  turtle  beats  them  hollow ; 
It  almost  makes  me  wish,  I  vow. 
To  have  tioo  stomachs,  like  a  cow  !  "' 
And,  lo  !  as  with  the  cud,  an  inward  thrill 
Upheaved  his  waistcoat  and  disturbed  his  frill, 
His  mouth  was  oozing  and  he  worked  his  jaw  -  - 
"  I  almost  think  that  I  could  eat  one  raw  !  " 

And  thus,  as  '-inward  love  breeds  outward  talk," 
The  portly  pair  continued  to  discourse  ; 
And  then  —  as  Gray  describes  of  life's  divorce  — 
With  ' '  longing,  lingering  look  ' '  prepared  to  walk,- 
Havino;  throusih  one  delio-hted  sense,  at  least, 
Enjoyed  a  sort  of  Barmecidal  feast, 
And  with  prophetic  gestures,  strange  to  see, 
Forestalled  the  civic  banquet  yet  to  be. 
Its  callipash  and  callipee  ! 

A  pleasant  prospect  —  but.  alack  ! 
Scarcely  each  Alderman  had  turned  his  back, 
When,  seizing  on  the  moment  so  propitious. 
And  having  learned  that  they  were  so  delicious 

To  bite  and  sup, 
From  praises  so  high  flown  and  injudicious, — 

And  nothing  could  be  more  pernicious  ! 
The  Turtles  fell  to  work,  and  ate  each  other  up  ! 


THE   DESERT-BORX.  '*l9 


Never,  from  folly  or  urbanity, 
Praise  people  thus  profusely  to  their  faces, 
Till,  quite  in  love  T\itli  their  own  graces, 
They  "re  eaten  up  by  vanity  ! 


THE  DESERT-BORN. 
"Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me."  — Lauy  Hester  Stanhope. 

T  WAS  in  the  wilds  of  Lebanon,  amongst  its  barren  hills,— 
To  think  upon  it,  even  now,  my  very  blood  it  chills!  — 
11 J  sketch-book  spread  before  me,  and  my  pencil  in  my  hand, 
I  gazed  upon  the  mountain  range,  the  red  tumultuous  sand, 
The  plamy  palms,  the  sombre  firs,  the  cedars  tall  and  proud, 
When,  lo  !  a  shadow  passed  across  the  paper  like  a  cloud. 
And  looking  up  I  saw  a  form,  apt  figure  for  the  scene, 
Methought  I  stood  in  presence  of  some  oriental  queen  ! 

The  turban  on  her  head  was  white  as  any  driven  snow ; 
A  purple  bandalette  passed  o'er  the  lofty  brow  below. 
And  thence  upon  her  shoulders  fell,  by  either  jewelled  ear; 
In  yellow  folds  voluminous  she  wore  her  long  cachemere;^ 
Whilst  underneath,  with  ample  sleeves,  a  Turkish  robe  of  silk 
Enveloped  her  in  drapery  the  color  of  new  milk : 
Yet  oft  it  floated  wide  in  front,  disclosing  underneath 
A  crorgeous  Persian  tunic,  rich  with  many  a  broidered  wreath, 
Compdled  by  clasps  of  costly  pearl  around  her  neck  to  meet, 
And  yellow  as  the  amber  were  the  buskins  on  her  feet ! 

Of  course  I  bowed  my  lowest  bow:  of  all  the  things  on  earth, 
The  reverence  due  to  loveliness,  to  rank,  or  ancient  birth, 
To  power,  to  wealth,  to  genius,  or  to  any  thing  uncommon, 
A  man  should  bend  the  lowest  in  a  Desert  to  a  Woma7i ! 


y=^ 


420  THE    DESERT-BORN. 

Yet  some  strange  influence  stronger  still,  though  vague  and 

undefined, 
Compelled  me,  and  -^vith  magic  might  subdued  my  soul  and 

mind : 
There  was  a  something  in  her  air  that  drew  the  spirit  nigh, 
Beyond  the  common  witchery  that  dwells  in  woman's  eye ! 
With  reverence  deep,  like  any  slave  of  that  peculiar  land, 
I  bowed  my  forehead  to  the  earth,  and  kissed  the  arid  sand ; 
And  then  I  touched  her  garment's  hem,  devoutly  as  a  Dervise, 
Predestinated  (so  I  felt)  forever  to  her  service. 

Nor  was  I  wrong  in  auguring  thus  my  fortune  from  her  face ; 
She  knew  me.  seemingly,  as  well  as  any  of  her  race ; 
"  "Welcome  !  "  she  cried,  as  I  uprose  submissive  to  my  feet; 
"  It  was  ordained  that  you  and  I  should  in  this  desert  meet ! 
Ay,  ages  since,  before  thy  soul  had  burst  its  prison-bars. 
This  interview  was  promised  in  the  language  of  the  stars  !  " 
Then  clapping,  as  the  Easterns  wont,  her  all-commanding 

hands, 
A  score  of  mounted  Arabs  came  fast  spurring  o'er  the  sands. 
Nor  reined  they  up  their  foaming  steeds  till  in  my  very  face 
They  blew  the  breath  impetuous,  and  panting  from  the  race. 

"  Fear  naught,"  exclaimed  the  radiant  one,  as  I  sprang  oflF 

aloof ; 
"Thy  precious  frame  need  never  fear  a  blow  from  horse's  hoof! 
Thy  natal  star  was  fortunate  as  any  orb  of  birth, 
And  fate  hath  held  in  store  for  thee  the  rarest  gift  of  earth." 
Then  turning  to  the  dusky  men,  that  humbly  waited  near, 
She  cried,  "  Go  bring  the  Beautiful  —  for,  lo!  the  Man  ia 

here  !  " 

Ojffwent  the  obsequious  train  as  swift  as  Arab  hoofs  could  flee, 
But  Fancy  fond  outraced  them  all,  with  bridle  loose  and 
free, 


THE   DESERT-BOKN.  421 

And  brought  me  back,  for  love's  attack,  some  fair  Circassian 

bride, 
Or  Georgian  girl,  the  Harem's  boast,  and  fit  for  Sultan's  side ; 
Methought  I  liftaVup  her  veil,  and  saw  dark  eyes  beneath, 
Mild  as  gazelle's,  a  snowy  brow,  ripe  lips,  and  pearly  teeth, 
A  swanlike  neck,  a  shoulder  round,  full  bosom,  and  a  waist 
Not  too  compact,  and  rounded  limbs,  to  oriental  taste. 
Methought — but  here,  alas  !  alas  !  the  airy  dream  to  blight, 
Behold  the  Arabs  leading  up  a  Mare  of  milky  white  ! 
To  tellthe  truth,  without  reserve,  evasion,  or  remorse, 
The  last  of  creatures  in  my  love  or  liking  is  a  horse ; 
Whether  in  early  youth  some  kick  untimely  laid  me  flat, 
Whether  from  born  antipathy,  as  some  dislike  a  cat, 
I  never  yet  could  bear  the  kind,  from  Meux's  giant  steeds 
Down  to  those  little  bearish  cubs  of  Shetland's  shaggy  breeds; 
As  for  a  war-horse,  he  that  can  bestride  one  is  a  hero, — 
Merely  to  look  at  such  a  sight  my  courage  sinks  to  zero. 
With  lightning  eyes,  and  thunder  mane,  and  hurricanes  of 

legs, 
Tempestuous  tail  —  to  picture  him  description  vainly  begs  ! 
His  fiery  nostrils  send  forth  clouds  of  smoke  instead  of  breath ; 
Nay,  was  it  not  a  horse  that  bore  the  grisly  shape  of  Death  1 
Judge  then  how  cold  an  ague-fit  of  agony  was  mine 
To  see  the  mistress  of  my  fate,  imperious,  make  a  sign 
To  which  my  own  foreboding  soul  the  cruel  sense  supplied  : 
'•  Mount,  happy  man,  and   run  away  with  your  Arabian 

bride  ! " 
Grim  was  the  smile,  and  tremulous  the  voice  with  which  1 

spoke, 
Like  any  one's  when  jesting  with  a  subject  not  a  joke, 
So  men  have  trifled  with  the  axe  before  the  fatal  stroke. 

•'  Lady,  if  mine  had  been  the  luck  in  Yorkshire  to  be  bom, 
Or  any  of  its  ridings,  this  would  be  a  blessed  morn  ; 
36 


422  THE    DESERT-BORX. 

But,  hapless  one!  I  cannot  ride;  there's  something  in  a  horse 
That  I  can  always  honor,  but  I  never  could  endorse ; 
To  speak  still  more  commercially,  in  riding  I  am  quite 
Averse  to  running  long,  and  apt  to  be  paid  oflf  at  sight : 
In  legal  phrase,  for  evex-y  class  to  understand  me  still, 
I  never  was  in  stirrups  yet  a  tenant  but  at  will : 
Or,  if  you  please,  in  artist  terms,  I  never  went  a-straddle 
On  any  horse  without  '  a  want  of  keeping  '  in  the  saddle. 
In  short,"  and  here  I  blushed,  abashed,  and  held  my  head 

full  low, 
"  I  'm  one  of  those  whose  infant  ears  have  heard  the  chimes 

of  Bow!" 

The  lady  smiled,  as  houris  smile,  adovm  from  Turkish  skies, 
And  beams  of  cruel  kindness  shone  within  her  hazel  eyes  ; 
"  Stranger,'"  she  said,  '-'or  rather  say,  my  nearest,  dearest 

friend. 
There 's  something  in  your  eyes,  your  air,  and  that  high 

instep's  bend. 
That  tells  me  you  're  of  Arab  race, —  whatever  spot  of  earth, 
Cheapside,  or  Bow,  or  Stepney,  had  the  honor  of  your  birth, 
The  East  it  is  your  country !     Like  an  infant  changed  at 

nurse 
By  fairies,  you  have  undergone  a  nurtureship  perverse ; 
But  this — these  desert   sands — these  palms,    and  cedai'S 

waving  wild. 
All,  all,  adopt  thee  as  their  own — an  oriental  child;  — 
The  cloud  may  hide  the  sun  a  while,  but  soon  or  late,  no  doubt, 
The  spirit  of  your  ancestry  will  burst  and  sparkle  out ! 
I  read  the  starry  characters — and,  lo!  'tis  wi'itten  there, 
Thou  wort  foredoomed  of  sons  of  men  to  ride  upon  this  Mare, 
A  Mare  till  now  was  never  backed  by  one  of  mortal  mould ; 
Hark !  how  she  neighs,  as  if  for  thee  she  knew  that  she  was 

foaled!" 


TUE    DESERT-BORN.  423 

And  truly  —  I  devoutly  -wished  a  blast  of  the  simoom 

Had  stifled  her  ! — the  mare  herself  appeared  to  mock  my 

doom ; 
With  many  a  bound  she  capered  round  and  round  me  like  a 

dance : 
I  feared  indeed  some  Avild  caress  would  end  the  fearful  prance, 
And  felt  myself,  and  saw  myself —  the  fantasy  was  horrid  ! 
Like  old  Redgauntlet;  with  a  shoe  imprinted  on  my  forehead  ! 
On  bended  knees,  with  bowing  head,  and  hands  upraised  in 

prayer, 
I  begged  the  turbaned  Sultaness  the  issue  to  forbear ; 
I  painted  weeping  orphan  babes,  around  a  widowed  wife, 
And  di-ew  my  death  as  ^"ividly  as  others  di-aw  from  life ; 
'•  Behold,"'  I  said,  ••  a  simple  man,  for  such  high  feats  unfit, 
Who  never  yet  has  learned  to  know  the  crupper  from  the  bit. 
Whereas  the  boldest  horsemanship,  and  first  equestrian  skill, 
Would  well  be  tasked  to  bend  so  wild  a  creature  to  the  will." 
Alas  !  alas  !  't  was  all  in  vain,  to  supplicate  and  kneel, 
The  quadruped  could  not  have  been  more  cold  to  my  aj^peal ! 

"  Fear  nothing,'"  said  the  smiling  Fate,  "  when  human  help 

is  vain. 
Spirits  shall  by  thy  stii-rups  fly,  and  fairies  guide  the  rein ; 
Just  glance  at  yonder  animal,  her  perfect  shape  remark, 
And  in  thy  breast  at  once  shall  glow  the  oriental  spark ! 
As  for  thy  spouse  and  tender  babes,  no  Arab  roams  the  wild 
But  for  a  Mare  of  such  descent  would  barter  wife  and  child." 

' Nay,  then,"  cried  I —  (Heaven  shrive  the  lie  !  )  "to  tell 

the  secret  truth, 
'T  was  my  unhappy  fortune  once  to  over-ride  a  youth ! 
A  playful  child, —  so  full  of  life  !  — a  little  fiiir-haired  boy, 
His  sister's  pet,  his  father's  hope,  his  mother's  darling  joy  ! 
Ah  me  !  the  frantic  shriek  she  gave  !  I  hear  it  ringing  now .' 
That  hour,  upon  the  bloody  spot,  I  made  a  holy  vow ; 


424  THE    DESERT-BORN. 

A  solemn  compact,  deeply  sworn,  to  witness  mj  remorse, 
That  never  more  these  limbs  of  mine  should  mount  on  livins 
horse  !  " 

Good  Heaven !  to  see  the  angry  glance  that  flashed  upon 

me  now ! 
A  chill  ran  all  my  marrow  through  -^  the  drops  were  on  my 

brow ! 
I  knew  my  doom,  and  stole  a  glance  at  that  accursed  Mare, 
And  there  she  stood,  with  nostrils  wide,  that  snuffed  the 

sultry  air. 
How  lion-like  she  lashed  her  flanks  with  her  abundant  tail ; 
While  on  her  neck  the  stormy  mane  kept  tossing  to  the  gale  ! 
How  fearfully  she  rolled  her  eyes  between  the  earth  and  sky, 
As  if  in  wild  uncertainty  to  gallop  or  to  fly  ! 
While  with  her  hoof  she  scooped  the  sand  as  if  before  she  gave 
My  plunge  into  eternity  she  meant  to  dig  my  grave  ! 

And  I,  that  ne'er  could  calmly  bear  a  horse's  ears  at  play  — 
Or  hear  without  a  yard  of  jump  his  shrill  and  sudden  neigh  — 
Whose  foot  within  a  stable-door  had  never  stood  an  inch  — 
Whose  hand  to  pat  a  living  steed  would  feel  an  awful  flinch, — 
I,  that  had  never  thrown  a  leg  across  a  pony  small, 
To  scour  the  pathless  desert  on  the  tallest  of  the  tall ! 
For,  0  !  it  is  no  fable,  but  at  every  look  I  cast, 
Her  restless  legs  seemed  twice  as  long  as  when  I  saw  them  last ! 

In  agony  I  shook  —  and  yet,  although  congealed  by  fears. 
My  blood  was  l)oiling  flist,  to  judge  from  noises  in  my  ears ; 
I  gasped  as  if  in  vacuo,  and,  thrilling  with  despair, 
Some  secret  demon  seemed  to  pass  his  fingers  through  my  hair. 
I  could  not  stir —  I  could  not  speak  —  I  could  not  even  see  — 
A  sudden  mist  rose  up  between  that  awful  Mare  and  me, — 
I  tried  to  pray,  but  found  no  words,  though  ready  ripe  to  weep. 
No  tear  would  flow,  o'er  every  sense  a  swoon  began  to  creep 


THE   DESERT-BORN.  425 

When,  lo  !  to  bring  my  horrid  fate  at  once  unto  the  brunt, 
Two  Arabs  seized  me  from  behind,  two  others  in  the  front. 
And  ere  a  muscle  eould  l)e  strung  to  try  the  strife  forlorn, 
I  found  myself,  Mazeppa-like,  upon  the  Desert-Born  ! 

Terrific  was  the  neigh  she  gave,  the  moment  that  my  weight 
Was  felt  upon  her  back,  as  if  exulting  in  her  freight ; 
Whilst  dolefully  I  heard  a  voice  that  set  each  nerve  ajar, — 
"  Off  with  the  bridle  —  quick  !  —  and  leave  his  guidance  to 
his  star !  " 

"Allah !  il  Allah ! '"  rose  the  shout,  and  starting  with  a  bound, 
The  dreadful  Creature  cleared  at  once  a  dozen  yards  of 

ground ; 
And  grasping  at  her  mane  with  both  my  cold  convulsive 

hands, 
Away  we  flew  —  away  !  away  !  across  the  shifting  sands  ! 
My  eyes  were  closed  in  utter  di-ead  of  such  a  fearful  race. 
But  yet  by  certain  signs  I  knew  we  went  no  earthly  pace. 
For  turn  whichever  way  we  might,  the  wind  with  equal  force 
Rushed  like  a  torrid  hurricane  still  adverse  to  our  course  — 
One  moment  close  at  hand  I  heard  the  roaring  Syrian  Sea, 
The  next  it  only  murmured  like  the  humming  of  a  bee  ! 
And  when  I  dared  at  last  to  glance  across  the  wild  immense, 
0,  ne'er  shall  I  forget  the  whirl  that  met  the  dizzy  sense  ! 
"What  seemed  a  little  sprig  of  fern,  ere  lips  could  reckon 

twain, 
A  palm  of  forty  cubits  high,  we  passed  it  on  the  plain  ! 
What  tongue  could  tell, —  what  pencil  paint, —  what  pen 

describe  the  ride  ] 
Xow   off —  now    on  —  now  up  —  now   down, —  and  flung 

from  side  to  side  ! 
I  tried  to  speak,  but  had  no  voice,  to  soothe  her  with  its  tone ; 
My  scanty  breath  was  jolted  out  with  many  a  sudden  groan, 
36* 


126  THE    DESERT-BORI^. 

Mj  joints  were  racked  —  my  back  was  strained,  so  firmly  I 

had  clung  — 
My  nostrils  gushed,  and  thrice  my  teeth  had  bitten  through 

my  tongue  — 
When,  lo  !  — farewell  all  hope  of  life  !  — she  turned  and  faced 

the  rocks,  — 
None  but  a  flying  horse  could  clear  those  monstrous  granite 

blocks  ! 
So  thought  I,  —  but  I  little  knew  the  desert  pride  and  fire, 
Derived  from  a  most  deer-like  dam,  and  lion-hearted  sire ; 
Little  I  guessed  the  energy  of  muscle,  blood  and  bone ; 
Bound  after   bound,  with  eager  springs,  she  cleared  each 

massive  stone ;  — 
Nine  mortal  leaps  were  passed  before  a  huge  gray  rock  at 

length 
Stood  planted  there  as  if  to  dare  her  utmost  pitch  of  strength ; 
My  time  was  come  !   that  granite  heap  my  monument  of 

death  ! 
She  paused,  she  snorted  loud  and  long,  and  drew  a  fuller 

breath ; 
Nine  strides,  and  then  a  louder  beat  that  warned  me  of  her 

spring, 
I  felt  her  rising  in  the  air  like  eagle  on  the  wing  — 
But,  0 !  the  crash !  —  the  hideous  shock !  — the  million  sparks 

around  ! 
Her  hindmost  hoofs  had  struck  the  crest  of  that  prodigious 

mound ! 
Wild  shrieked  the  headlong  Desert-Born  —  or  else  't  was 

demons'  mirth, 
One  second  more,  and  Man  and  Mare  rolled  breathless  on 

the  earth  ! 
****** 
How  long  it  was  I  cannot  tell  ere  I  revived  to  sense^ 
And  then  but  to  endure  the  pangs  of  agony  intense  : 


THE   DESERT-BORN.  427 

For  over  me  lay  powerless,  and  still  as  any  stone, 

The  Corse  that  erst  had  so  much  fire,  strength,  spirit  of  itso\nL 

My  heart  Avas  still —  my  pulses  stopped  —  midway  " twixt  life 

and  death. 
With  pain  unspeakable  I  fetched  the  fragment  of  a  breath, 
Not  vital  air  enough  to  frame  one  short  and  feeble  sigh, 
Yet  even  that  I  loathed  because  it  would  not  let  me  die. 

0  !  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  on,  from  starry  night  till  morn, 
Time  flapped  along,  with  leaden  wings,  across  that  waste 

forlorn, 

1  cursed  the  hour  that  brought  me  first  within  this  world  of 

strife  — 
A  sore  and  heavy  sin  it  is  to  scorn  the  gift  of  life  — 
But  who  hath  felt  a  horse's  weight  oppress  his  laboring 

breast  ? 
Why,  any  who  has  had,  like  me,  the  Night  Mare  on  his 

chest. 


LOVE    LANE. 


If  I  should  love  a  maiden  more, 
And  woo  her  every  hope  to  crown, 
I  'd  love  her  all  the  country  o'er. 
But  not  declare  it  out  of  to^^-n. 

One  even,  by  a  mossy  bank, 
■  That  held  a  hornet's  nest  within. 
To  Ellen  on  my  knees  I  sank, — 
How  snakes  will  twine  around  the  shin  ! 

A  bashfal  fear  my  soul  unnerved, 
And  gave  my  heart  a  backward  tug ; 
Nor  was  I  cheered  when  she  observed. 
Whilst  I  was  silent,  "  What  a  slug  !  " 

At  length  my  offer  I  preferred, 
And  Hope  a  kind  reply  forebode  — 


428  LOVE  LANE. 

Alas  !  the  only  sound  I  heard 
Was,  "  "What  a  horrid  ugly  toad  !  " 
I  vowed  to  give  her  all  mj  heart, 
To  love  her  till  my  life  took  leave, 
And  painted  all  a  lover's  smart  — 
Except  a  wasp  gone  up  his  sleeve  ! 

But  when  I  ventured  to  abide 

Her  father's  and  her  mother's  grants  — 

Sudden  she  started  up  and  cried, 

"  0  dear  !  I  am  all  over  ants  !  " 

Nay,  when  beginning  to  beseech 
The  cause  that  led  to  my  rebuff, 
The  answer  was  as  strange  a  speech  — 
A  "  Daddy-Longlegs,  sure  enough  !  " 

I  spoke  of  fortune  —  house, —  and  lands, 
And  still  renewed  the  warm  attack, — 
'T  is  vain  to  offer  ladies  hands 
That  have  a  spider  on  the  back  ! 

'T  is  vain  to  talk  of  hopes  and  fears, 
And  hope  the  least  reply  to  win, 
From  any  maid  that  stops  her  ears 
In  dread  of  earwigs  creeping  in  ! 

'T  is  vain  to  call  the  dearest  names 
Whilst  stoats  and  weasels  startle  by  — 
As  vain  to  talk  of  mutual  flames 
To  one  with  glowworms  in  her  eye  ! 

What  checked  me  in  my  fond  address, 
And  knocked  each  pretty  image  down  ? 
What  stopped  my  Ellen's  faltering  yes  7 
A  caterpillar  on  her  gown  ! 

To  list  to  Philomel  is  sweet  — 
To  see  the.  moon  rise  silver-pale, — 


DOMESTIC   POEMS. 


429 


But  not  to  kneel  at  lady's  feet 
And  crush  a  rival  in  a  snail ! 

Sweet  is  the  eventide,  and  kind 
Its  zephyr,  balmy  as  the  south ; 
But  svreeter  still  to  speak  your  mind 
Without  a  chafer  in  your  mouth  ! 

At  last,  emboldened  by  my  bliss, 

Still  fickle  Fortune  played  me  foul, 

For  Tvhen  I  strove  to  snatch  a  kiss 

She  screamed  —  by  proxy,  through  an  ovrl ! 

Then,  lovers,  doomed  to  life  or  death, 
Shun  moonlight,  twilight,  lanes  and  bats, 
Lest  you  should  have  in  self-same  breath 
To  bless  your  fate  —  and  cui'se  the  gnats  ! 


DO:^rESTIC  POKMS. 

"  It's  hame,  hame,  hame."  —  A.  Crxx'iNGHAM. 
'  There  's  no  place  like  home."  —  Clabi. 

I. 

HYMENEAL   RETROSPECTIONS. 

0  Kate  !  my  dear  partner,  through  joy  and  through  strife 

"When  I  look  back  at  Hymen's  dear  day, 
Not  a  lovelier  bride  ever  changed  to  a  wife. 

Though  you  're  now  so  old.  wizened,  and  gray  ! 

Those  eyes,  then,  were  stars,  shining  rulers  of  fate  ! 

But  as  liquid  as  stars  in  a  pool ; 
Though  now  they're  so  dim,  they  appear,  my  dear  Kate, 

Just  like  gooseberries  'boiled  for  a  fool ! 
That  brow  was  like  marble,  so  smooth  and  so  fair  ; 

Thouc'h  it  "s  wrinkled  so  crookedly  now, 


iSO  DOMESTIC   POEMS. 

As  if  Time,  when  those  furrows  were  roade  by  the  share, 
Had  been  tipsy  whilst  driving  his  plough  ! 

Your  nose,  it  was  such  as  the  sculptors  all  chose, 

When  a  Venus  demanded  their  skill ; 
Though  now  it  can  hardly  be  reckoned  a  nose. 

But  a  sort  of  Poll-Parroty  bill ! 

Your  mouth,  it  was  then  quite  a  bait  for  the  bees, 
Such  a  nectar  there  hung  on  each  lip  ; 

Though  now  it  has  taken  that  lemon-like  squeeze, 
Not  a  blue-bottle  comes  for  a  sip  ! 

Your  chin,  it  was  one  of  Love's  favorite  haunts, 
From  its  dimple  he  could  not  get  loose  ; 

Though  now  the  neat  hand  of  a  barber  it  wants. 
Or  a  singe,  like  the  breast  of  a  goose  ! 

How  rich  were  those  locks,  so  abundant  and  full. 
With  their  ringlets  of  auburn  so  deep  ! 

Though  now  they  look  only  like  frizzles  of  wool, 
By  a  bramble  torn  off  from  a  sheep  ! 

That  neck,  not  a  swan  could  excel  it  in  grace, 
While  in  whiteness  it  vied  with  your  arms  : 

Though  noAV  a  grave  'kerchief  you  properly  place, 
To  conceal  that  scrag-end  of  your  charms  ! 

Your  figure  was  tall,  then,  and  perfectly  straight, 
Though  it  now  has  two  twists  from  upright  — 

But  bless  you  !  still  bless  you  !  my  partner !  my  Kate ! 
Though  you  be  such  a  perfect  old  fright ! 


n. 

The  sun  was  slumbering  in  the  west,  my  daily  labors  past ; 
On  Anna's  soft  and  gentle  breast  my  head  reclined  at  last ; 


DOMESTIC   POEMS.  431 

The  darkness  closed  around,  so  dear  to  fond  congenial  souls ; 
xVnd  thus  she  murmured  at  my  ear,  "  My  love,  we  "re  out  of 
coals  ! 

'*  That  Mister  Bond  has  called  again,  insisting  on  his  rent ; 
And  all  the  Todds  are  coming  up  to  see  us,  out  of  Kent ; 
I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you  John  has  had  a  tipsy  fall ;  — 
I  "m  sure  there  's  something  going  on  "with  that  vile  Mary 
Hall ! 

''  Miss  Bell  has  hought  the  sweetest  silk,  and  I  have  bought 

the  rest  — 
Of  course,  if  we  go  out  of  town,  Southend  will  be  the  best. 
I  really  think  the  Jones's  house  would  be  the  thing  for  us ; 
I  think  I  told  you  Mrs.  Pope  had  parted  with  her  niis  — 

■'  Cook,  by  the  way,  came  up  to-day,  to  bid  me  suit  myself — 
And,  what  d"  ye  think  7  the  rats  have  gnawed  the  victuals 

on  the  shelf. 
And,  Lord  I  there  "s  such  a  letter  come,  inviting  you  to  fight ! 
Of  course  you  don't  intend  to  go  —  God  bless  you,  dear, 

good-night!  " 


m. 

A   PARENTAL    ODE    TO    JIT    SOX,  AGED    THKEE    YEARS    AXD 
FIVE    MONTHS. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop, —  fii'st  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear)  — • 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
(i\Iy  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear  !) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  ! 
With  spirits  feather-light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  — 
(Good  heavens!  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  !) 


432  DOMESTIC   POEMS. 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Licfht  as  the  sino;ino;  bii'd  that  Tving-s  the  air  — 
(The  door  !  the  door!  he  "11  tumble  down  the  stair  !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he  '11  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  Love's  dear  chain  so  stroncr  and  briorht  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  —  (Drat  the  boy  ! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 

Thou  cherub  —  but  of  earth  ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  Fays,  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 

Thou  human  liumming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble!  — that 's  his  precious  nose  !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He  "11  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature's  mint- 
( Where  did  he  learn  that  squint?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 
(He  '11  have  that  jug  off,  with  another  shove  !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  Hymeneal  nest ! 

(Ai'e  those  torn  clothes  his  best  T) 

Little  epitome  of  man  I 
(He  '11  climb  upon  the  table,  that  "s  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life  — 

(He  's  got  a  knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being  ! 

No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 


DOMESTIC   POEMS.  433 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John  ! 
Toss  the  light  ball  —  bestride  the  stick  — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 
With  fancies,  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 
Prompting  the  foce  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk. 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He  's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown!) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  South, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, — 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar  !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove,— 

(I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write,  unless  he 's  sent  above  !) 


IV. 

A   SERENADE. 

"  LuLLABT,  0,  lullaby  !  " 
Thus  I  heard  a  father  cry, 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
The  brat  will  never  shut  an  eye; 
Hither  come,  some  power  divine ! 
Close  his  lids,  or  open  mine  !  " 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
What  the  devil  makes  him  cry  1 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Still  he  stares  —  I  wonder  why, 
Wliy  are  not  the  sons  of  earth 
Blind,  like  puppies,  from  the  birth  ]  " 
37 


434  A   PLAIN   DIRECTION. 

''Lullaby,  0,  lullaby!" 
Thus  I  heard  the  father  cry ; 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Mary,  you  must  come  and  try  !  — 
Hush,  0,  hush,  for  mercy's  sake  — 
The  more  I  sing,  the  more  you  wake !  " 

"Lullaby,  0,  lullaby! 
Fie,  you  little  creature,  fie  ! 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Is  no  poppy-syrup  nigh  ? 
Give  him  some,  or  give  him  all, 
I  am  nodding  to  his  fall !  " 

"Lullaby,  0,  lullaby! 
Two  such  nights  and  I  shall  die ! 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
He  '11  be  bruised,  and  so  shall  I,— 
How  can  I  from  bed-posts  keep, 
When  I  'm  walking  in  my  sleep  !  " 

"Lullaby,  0,  lullaby! 
Sleep  his  very  looks  deny  — 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby ! 
Nature  soon  will  stupefy  — 
My  nerves  relax, —  my  eyes  grow  dim  — 
Who  's  that  fallen — me  or  him?  " 


A  PLAIN  DIRECTION. 

"Do  you  never  deviate  1"  —  John  Bull. 

In  London  once  I  lost  my  way  in  faring  to  and  fro. 
And  asked  a  little  ragged  boy  the  way  that  I  should  go ; 
He  gave  a  nod,  and  then  a  wink,  and  told  me  to  get  there 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 


A    PLAIX    DIRECTION.  435 

I  boxed  his  little  saucy  ears,  and  tlien  away  I  strode  ; 
But  since  I  *ve  found  that  weary  path  is  quite  a  common  road, 
Utopia  is  a  pleasant  place,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square."' 

I  "ve  read  about  a  famous  town  that  drove  a  famous  trade. 
Where  Whittington  walked  up  and  found  a  fortune  ready  made. 
The  very  streets  are  paved  with  gold ;  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  ? 
'•  Straight  do^-n  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

I  've  read  about  a  Fairy  Land,  in  some  romantic  tale, 
"Where  dwarfs  if  good  are  sure  to  thrive  and  wicked  giants  fail : 
My  wish  is  great,  my  shoes  are  strong,  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  7 
''  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square.'' 

I  've  heard  about  some  happy  isle,  where  every  man  is  free, 
And  none  can  lie  in  bonds  for  life  for  want  of  L.  S.  D. 

0  !  that  "s  the  land  of  Liberty  !  but  ho.w  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

1  "ve  dreamt  about  some  blessed  spot,  beneath  the  blessed  sky, 
Where  bread  and  justice  never  rise  too  dear  for  folks  to  buy. 
It 's  cheaper  than  the  Ward  of  Cheap,  but  how  shall  I  get 

there  ? 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

They  say  there  is  an  ancient  house,  as  pure  as  it  is  old, 
Where  iiiembors  always  speak  thek  minds,  and  votes  are 

never  sold. 
I  'm  fond  of  all  antiquities,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  7 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

They  say  there  is  a  royal  court  maintained  in  noble  state, 
"Where  every  able  man,  and  good,  is  certain  to  be  great ! 
I  'm  very  fond  of  seeing  sights,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  1 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square."' 


i36  EQUESTRIAN    COURTSHIP. 

They  say  there  is  a  temple  too,  "where  Christians  come  to  pray; 
But  canting  knaves  and  hypocrites  and  bigots  keep  away. 
0 !  that 's  the  parish  church  for  me  I  but  how  shall  I  get  there  7 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

They  say  there  is  a  garden  fair,  that  "s  haunted  by  the  dove, 
Where  love  of  gold  doth  ne'er  eclipse  the  golden  light  of  love ; 
The  place  must  be  a  Paradise,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  1 
' '  Straight  do"\vn  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square. 

I  've  heard  there  is  a  famous  land  for  public  spirit  known  — 
Whose  patriots  love  its  interests  much  better  than  their  own. 
The  Land  of  Promise  sure  it  is  !  but  how  shall  I  get  there  ? 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

I '  ve  read  about  a  fine  estate,  a  mansion  large  and  strong ; 
A  view  all  over  Kent  and  back,  and  goincr  for  a  sonc. 
George  Robins  knows  the  very  spot,  but  how  shall  I  get  there? 
"Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

I  've  heard  there  is  a  company  all  formal  and  enrolled, 
Will  take  your  smallest  silver  coin  and  give  it  back  in  gold. 
Of  course  the  office-door  is  mobbed,  but  how  shall  I  o-et  there  7 
"  Straight  down  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square." 

I've  heardabout  a  pleasant  land,  where  omelettes  grow  entrees. 
And  roasted  pigs  run  crying  out,  "  Come  eat  me,  if  you 

please." 
My  appetite  is  rather  keen,  but  how  shall  I  get  there  1 
''Straight  do^n  the  Crooked  Lane,  and  all  round  the  Square. '■ 


EQUESTRIAN   COURTSHIP. 

It  was  a  young  maiden  went  forth  to  ride, 
And  there  was  a  wooer  to  pace  by  her  side ; 
His  horse  was  so  little,  and  hers  so  hio-h, 
He  thought  his  angel  was  up  in  the  sky. 


AN    OPEN    QUESTION.  43Y 

His  love  was  great,  though  his  wit  was  small ; 
He  bade  her  ride  easy  —  and  that  was  all. 
The  verj  horses  began  to  neigh, — 
Because  their  betters  had  naught  to  say. 

They  rode  by  elm,  and  they  rode  by  oak, 

They  rode  by  a  church-yard,  and  then  he  spoke  :  — 

'•  My  pretty  maiden,  if  you  '11  agree 

You  shall  always  ramble  through  life  with  me." 

The  damsel  ansAvered  him  never  a  word. 

But  kicked  the  gray  mare,  and  away  she  spurred. 

The  wooer  still  followed  behind  the  jade, 

And  enjoyed  —  hke  a  wooer  —  the  dust  she  made. 

They  rode  through  moss,  and  they  rode  through  moor, — 

The  gallant  behind  and  the  lass  before ;  — 

At  last  they  came  to  a  miry  place, 

And  there  the  sad  wooer  gave  up  the  chase. 

Quoth  he,  "  If  my  nag  were  better  to  ride, 

I  'd  follow  her  over  the  world  so  wide. 

0,  it  is  not  my  love  that  begins  to  fail. 

But  I  've  lost  the  last  glimpse  of  the  gray  mare's  tail ! '' 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 

"  It  is  the  king's  highway  that  we  are  in,  and  in  this  way  it  is  that  thor 
■last  placed  the  lions." — Bunyan. 

What  !  shut  the  Gardens  !  lock  the  latticed  gate  ! 

Refuse  the  shilling  and  the  fellow's  ticket ! 
And  hang  a  wooden  notice  up  to  state, 

"  On  Sundays  no  admittance  at  this  wicket !  " 
The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  all  the  Reptile  race. 

Denied  to  friends  and  visitors  till  Monday ! 
Now,  really,  this  appears  the  common  case 
37* 


i38  AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 

Of  putting  too  much  Sabbath  into  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  jour  opinion,  Mrs  Grundy  ] 

The  Gardens, —  so  unlike  the  ones  vre  dub 
Of  Tea,  Tvherein  the  artisan  carouses, — 

Mere  shrubberies  without  one  drop  of  shrub, — 

Wherefore  should  they  be  closed  like  public-houses  1 

No  ale  is  vended  at  the  wild  Deer's  Head, — 
No  rum  —  nor  gin  —  not  even  of  a  Monday  — 

The  Lion  is  not  carved  —  or  gilt  —  or  red, 
And  does  not  send  out  porter  of  a  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ] 

The  Bear  denied  !  the  Leopard  under  locks ! 

As  if  his  spots  would  give  contagious  fevers  ! 
The  Beaver  close  as  hat  within  its  box ; 

So  different  from  other  Sunday  beavers  ! 
The  Birds  invisible  —  the  Gnaw- way  Rats  — 

The  Seal  hermetically  sealed  till  Monday  — 
The  Monkey  tribe  —  the  Family  of  Cats, — 

We  visit  other  families  on  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  is  the  brute  profanity  that  shocks 
The  super-sensitively  serious  feeling  } 

The  Kangaroo  —  is  he  not  orthodox 

To  bend  his  legs,  the  way  he  does,  in  kneeling  'i 

Was  strict  Sir  Andrew,  in  his  Sabbath  coat, 
Struck  all  a-heap  to  see  a  Coatl  mundi  7 

Or  did  the  Kentish  Plumtree  faint  to  note 
The  Pelicans  presenting  bills  on  Sunday  7  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy? 

What  feature  has  repulsed  the  serious  set  1 
What  error  in  the  bestial  birth  or  breeding. 

To  put  their  tender  fancies  on  the  fi-et  I 

One  thing  is  plain  —  it  is  not  in  the  feeding ! 


AX    OPEN    QUESTION.  439 

Some  stiffish  people  think  that  smoking  joints 
Are  carnal  sins  'twixt  Saturday  and  Monday  — 

But  then  the  beasts  are  pious  on  these  points, 
For  they  all  eat  cold  dinners  on  a  Sunday  — 
But  -^'hat  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  change  comes  o'er  the  sjjirit  of  the  place. 
As  if  transmuted  by  some  spell  organic  ? 

Turns  fell  Hyena  of  the  Ghoulish  race  ? 

The  Snake,  pro  tempore,  the  true  Satanic? 

Do  L"ish  minds, —  (whose  theory  allows 

That  now  and  then  Good  Friday  falls  on  Monday)  — 

Do  Irish  minds  suppose  that  Indian  Cows 

Are  wicked  Bulls  of  Bashan  on  a  Sunday  ?  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  '^ 

There  are  some  moody  Fellows,  not  a  few, 
Who,  turned  by  Nature  with  a  gloomy  bias, 

Renounce  black  devils  to  adopt  the  blue. 

And  think  when  they  are  dismal  they  are  pious  : 

Is  't  possible  that  Pug's  untimely  fun 

Has  sent  the  brutes  to  Coventry  till  Monday  — 

Or  perhaps  some  animal,  no  serious  one, 
Was  overheard  in  laughter  on  a  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  7 

What  dire  offence  have  serious  Fellows  found 

To  raise  their  spleen  against  the  Regent's  spinney? 

Were  charitable  boxes  handed  round. 

And  would  not  Guinea  Pigs  subscribe  their  guinea" 

Perchance,  the  Demoiselle  refused  to  moult 

The  feathers  in  her  head  —  at  least  till  Monday ; 

Or  did  the  Elephant,  unseemly,  bolt 

A  tract  presented  to  be  read  on  Sunday  ?  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 


140  AN    OPEX    QUESTION. 

At  ^vllom  did  Leo  struggle  to  get  loose  ? 

^Mio  mourns  thi'ough  Monkey  tricks  his  damaged  clothing  1 
Who  has  been  hissed  by  the  Canadian  Goose  1 

On  whom  did  Llama  spit  in  utter  loathing  ? 
Some  Smithfield  Saint  did  jealous  feelings  tell 

To  keep  the  Puma  out  of  sight  till  Monday, 
Because  he  preyed  extempore  as  well 

As  certain  wild  Itinerants  on  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  7 

To  me  it  seems  that  in  the  oddest  way 

(Begging  the  pardon  of  each  rigid  Socius) 
Our  would-be  Keepers  of  the  Sabbath-day 

Are  like  the  Keepers  of  the  brutes  ferocious  — 
As  soon  the  Tiger  might  expect  to  stalk 

About  the  grounds  from  Saturday  till  Monday, 
As  any  harmless  man  to  take  a  walk. 

If  Saints  could  clap  him  in  a  cage  on  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  1 

In  spite  of  all  hypocrisy  can  spin, 

As  surely  as  I  am  a  Christian  scion, 
I  cannot  think  it  is  a  mortal  sin  — 

(Unless  he 's  loose)  — to  look  upon  a  lion. 
I  really  think  that  one  may  go,  perchance. 

To  see  a  bear,  as  guiltless  as  on  Monday  — 
(That  is,  provided  that  he  did  not  dance)  — 

Bruin  's  no  worse  than  bakin'  on  a  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

[n  spite  of  ail  the  fanatic  compiles, 

I  cannot  think  the  day  a  bit  diviner. 
Because  no  children,  with  forestalling  smiles. 

Throng,  happy,  to  the  gates  of  Eden  Minor  — 
It  is  not  plain,  to  my  poor  faith  at  least. 

That  what  we  christen  "Natural"  on  Monday, 


AN    OPEN    QUESTION.  441 

The  wondrous  history  of  Bu-d  and  Beast, 
Can  be  unnatural  because  it" s  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

Whereon  is  sinful  fantasy  to  work  1 

The  Dove,  the  winged  Columbus  of  man's  haven'? 
The  tender  Love-Bird  —  or  the  filial  Stork  7 

The  punctual  Crane  —  the  providential  Raven  ] 
The  Pelican  whose  bosom  feeds  her  young  7 

Nay,  must  we  cut  from  Saturday  till  Monday 
That  feathered  marvel  with  a  human  tongue, 

Because  she  does  not  preach  upon  a  Sunday  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

The  busy  Beaver  —  that  sagacious  beast ! 

The  Sheep  that  owned  an  Oriental  Shepherd  — 
That  Desert-ship,  the  Camel  of  the  East, 

The  horned  Rhinoceros  —  the  spotted  Leopard  — 
The  Creatures  of  the  Great  Creator's  hand 

Are  surely  sights  for  better  days  than  Monday  — 
The  Elephant,  although  he  wears  no  band, 

Has  he  no  sermon  in  his  trunk  for  Sunday  1  — 

But  what  is  your  opinion.  Mrs.  Grundy  1 

"What  harm  if  men  who  buro  the  midnight-oil, 
Weary  of  frame,  and  worn  and  wan  of  feature, 

Seek  once  a  week  theii'  spirits  to  assoil. 

And  snatch  a  glimpse  of  "  Animated  jS'ature  "  1 

Better  it  were  if ,  in  his  best  of  suits. 

The  artisan,  who  goes  to  work  on  Monday, 

Should  spend  a  leisure-hour  amongst  the  brutes, 
Than  make  a  beast  of  his  own  self  on  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  7 

"Why,  zounds  !  what  raised  so  Protestant  a  fuss 
(Omit  the  zounds  !  for  which  I  make  apology) 


i42  MORNING   MEDITATIONS. 

But  that  the  Papists,  like  some  Fellows,  thus 

Had  somehow  mixed  up  Dens  with  their  Theology  1 

Is  Brahma"  s  Bull — a  Hindoo  god  at  home  — 
A  Papal  Bull  to  be  tied  up  till  Monday  — 

Or  Leo,  like  his  namesake,  Pope  of  Bome, 

That  there  is  such  a  dread  of  them  on  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

Spu'it  of  Kant !  have  we  not  had  enough 

To  make  Religion  sad,  and  sour,  and  snubbish, 

But  Saints  Zoological  must  cant  their  stuff, 

As  vessels  cant  their  ballast  —  rattling  rubbish  ! 

Once  let  the  sect,  triumphant  to  their  text, 
Shut  Nero  up  from  Saturday  till  Monday, 

And  sure  as  fate  they  will  deny  us  next 
To  see  the  Dandelions  on  a  Sunday  — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  7 


MORNING    MEDITATIONS. 

Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy, 
How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks  are  flying- 
For  my  part,  getting  up  seems  not  so  easy 
By  half  as  lying. 

What  if  the  lark  does  carol  in  the  sky. 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight  to  find  him  out  — 
Wherefore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  fly  7 
I  'm  not  a  trout. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  bees  and  such-like  hums. 
The  smell  of  sweet  herbs  at  the  morning  prime  - 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 
A  bed  of  time. 


MORNING   MEDITATIONS.  448 

To  me  Dan  Phoebus  and  his  car  are  naught; 
His  steeds  that  paw  impatiently  about, — 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I.  as  horses  ought. 
The  fii'st  turn-out ! 

Right  beautiful  the  dewy  maids  appear 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl  ; 
"VMiat  then, —  if  I  prefer  my  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl  ? 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's, 

And.  grumbling  for  a  reason,  quaintly  begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the  hens 
Have  laid  their  eggs  7 

Why  fi-om  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  flushes  in  the  east  awaken  1 
A  fig,  say  I,  for  any  streaky  part, 
Excepting  bacon. 

An  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn. 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  gi-ass  among, 
"  To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn,"  — 
Well  —  he  died  young. 

With  charwomen  such  early  houi-s  agree, 
And  sweeps  that  earn  betimes  their  bit  and  sup ; 
But  I  "m  no  climbing  boy,  and  need  not  be 
All  up  —  all  up  ! 

So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  calls  deferring, 
Till  something  nearer  to  the  stroke  of  noon  ;  — 
A  man  that  "s  fond  precociously  of  stirring, 
Must  be  a  spoon. 


i44  A   BLACK   JOB. 


A    BLACK    JOB. 


"  No  doubt  the  pleasure  is  as  great 
Of  being  cheated  as  to  cheat."  —  Hudibkas. 

The  history  of  human-kind  to  trace 

Since  Eve  —  the  first  of  dupes  —  our  doom  unriddled, 
A  certain  portion  of  the  human  race 

Has  certainly  a  taste  for  being  diddled. 

Witness  the  famous  Mississippi  dreams  ! 

A  rage  that  time  seems  only  to  redouble  — 
The  Banks,  Joint-Stocks,  and  all  the  flimsy  schemes, 

For  rolling  in  Pactolian  streams, 
That  cost  our  modern  rogues  so  little  trouble. 
No  matter  what, —  to  pasture  cows  on  stubble, 

To  twist  sea-sand  into  a  solid  rope, 
To  make  French  bricks  and  fancy  bread  of  rubble. 
Or  light  with  gas  the  whole  celestial  cope  — 

Only  propose  to  blow  a  bubble. 
And,  Lord  !  what  hundreds  will  subscribe  for  soap  ! 

Soap  !  it  reminds  me  of  a  little  tale, 

Though  not  a  pig's,  the  hawbuck's  glory, 
When  rustic  games  and  merriment  prevail  — 

But  here 's  my  story  : 
Once  on  a  time  —  no  matter  when  — 
A  knot  of  very  charitable  men 
Set  up  a  Philanthropical  Society, 
Professing  on  a  certain  plan 
To  benefit  the  race  of  man, 
And  in  particular  that  dark  variety, 
Which  some  suppose  inferior  —  as  in  vermin, 

The  sable  is  to  ermine. 
As  smut  to  flour,  as  coal  to  alabaster. 

As  crows  to  swans,  as  soot  to  driven  snow, 


A   BLACK   JOB.  445 

As  blacking,  or  as  ink  to  "milk  below," 
Or  yet,  a  better  simile  to  show, 
As  ragman's  dolls  to  images  in  plaster ! 

However,  as  is  usual  in  our  city, 

They  had  a  sort  of  managing  Committee, 

A  board  of  grave,  responsible  Directors  — 
A  Secretary,  good  at  pen  and  ink  — 
A  Treasurer,  of  course,  to  keep  the  chink, 

And  quite  an  anny  of  Collectors  ! 
Not  merely  male,  but  female  duns, 

Young,  old,  and  middle-aged  —  of  all  degrees  — 
"With  many  of  those  persevering  ones. 

Who  mite  by  mite  would  beg  a  cheese  ! 
And  what  might  be  their  aim  ? 

To  rescue  Afric's  sable  sons  from  fetters  — 
To  save  their  bodies  from  the  burning  shame 

Of  branding  with  hot  letters  — 
Their  shoulders  from  the  cowhide's  bloody  strokes, 

Their  necks  from  iron  yokes  7 
To  end  or  mitigate  the  ills  of  slavery, 
The  Planter's  avarice,  the  Driver's  knavery? 
To  school  the  heathen  negroes  and  enlighten  'em, 

To  polish  up  and  brighten  'em, 
And  make  them  woj'thy  of  eternal  bliss  ? 
Why,  no  —  the  simple  end  and  aim  was  this  — 
Reading  a  well-known  proverb  much  amiss  — 
To  wash  and  whiten  'em  ! 

They  looked  so  ugly  in  their  sable  hides  ; 

So  dark,  so  dingy,  like  a  grubby  lot 
Of  sooty  sweeps,  or  colliers,  and  besides, 

However  the  poor  elves 

Jklight  wash  themselves, 


446  A   BLACK   JOB. 

Nobody  knew  if  thej  were  clean  or  not  —  . 

On  Nature's  fairness  thej  were  quite  a  blot ! 
Not  to  forget  more  serious  complaints 
That  even  while  thej  joined  in  pious  hymn, 
So  black  they  were  and  grim, 
In  face  and  limb. 
They  looked  like  Devils,  though  they  sang  like  Saints  ! 

The  thing  was  undeniable  ! 
They  wanted  washing  !  not  that  slight  ablution 
To  which  the  skin  of  the  white  man  is  liable. 
Merely  removing  transient  pollution  — 

But  good,  hard,  honest,  energetic  rubbing 
And  scrubbing, 
Sousing  each  sooty  frame  from  heels  to  head 

With  stiff,  strong  saponaceous  lather, 

And  pails  of  water  —  hottish  rather, 
But  not  so  boiling  as  to  turn  'em  red  ! 

So  spoke  the  philanthropic  man 

Who  laid,  and  hatched,  and  nursed  the  plan  — 

And,  0  !  to  view  its  glorious  consummation  ! 
The  brooms  and  mops, 
The  tubs  and  slops, 

The  baths  and  brushes  in  full  operation  ! 
To  see  each  Crow,  or  Jim,  or  John, 
Go  in  a  raven  and  come  out  a  swan  ! 

While  fair  as  Cavendishes,  Vanes,  and  Kussels, 
Black  Venus  rises  from  the  soapy  surge. 
And  all  the  little  Niggerlings  emerge 

As  lily-white  as  mussels. 

Sweet  was  the  vision  —  but,  alas  ! 

However  in  prospectus  bright  and  sunny, 
To  bring  such  visionary  scenes  to  pass 

One  thing  was  requisite,  and  that  was  —  money ! 


A    BLACK    JOB.  i^T 

Money,  that  pays  the  laundress  and  her  bills, 
For  socks,  and  collars,  shirts,  and  frills, 
Cravats,  and  kerchiefs  —  money,  without  which 
The  Negroes  must  remain  as  dark  as  pitch ; 

A  thing  to  make  all  Christians  sad  and  shivery. 
To  think  of  millions  of  immortal  sovils 
Dwelling  in  bodies  black  as  coals. 

And  living  —  so  to  speak  —  in  Satan's  livery  ! 

j^Xoney  —  the  root  of  evil  —  dross  and  stuff ! 

But,  0  !  how  happy  ought  the  rich  to  feel, 
Whose  means  enabled  them  to  give  enough 

To  blanch  an  African  from  head  to  heel ! 
How  blessed  —  yea.  thrice  blessed  —  to  subscribe 

Enough  to  scour  a  tribe  ! 
While  he  whose  fortune  was  at  best  a  brittle  one. 
Although  he  gave  but  pence,  how  sweet  to  know 
He  helped  to  bleach  a  Hottentot's  great  toe, 
Or  little  one  ! 

Moved  by  this  logic,  or  appalled. 

To  persons  of  a  certain  turn  so  proper. 
The  money  came  when  called. 
In  silver,  gold,  and  copper. 

Presents  from  "friends  to  blacks,"  or  foes  to  whites, 
"Trifles,"'  and  "  offerings,"  and  "  widow's  mites," 
Plump  legacies,  and  yearly  benefactions. 
With  other  gifts 
And  charitable  lifts, 
Printed  in  lists  and  quarterly  transactions. 
As  thus  —  Elisha  Brettel, 
An  iron  kettle. 
The  DoAvager  Lady  Scannel, 
A  piece  of  flannel. 
Rebecca  Pope, 
A  bar  of  soap. 


448  A  BLACK   JOB. 

The  Misses  Howels, 
Half-a-dozen  towels. 
.  The  Master  Rush's 
Two  scrubbing-brushes. 
Mr.  T.  Groom, 
A  stable-broom, 
And  Mrs.  Grubb, 
A  tub. 

Great  were  the  sums  collected  ! 

And  great  results  in  consequence  expected. 

But  somehow,  in  the  teeth  of  all  endeavor. 

According  to  reports 

At  yearly  courts, 
The  Blacks,  confound  them  !  were  as  black  as  ever  ! 

Yes  !  spite  of  all  the  water  soused  aloft, 
Soap,  plain  and  mottled,  hard  and  soft, 
Soda  and  pearlash,  huckaback  and  sand, 
Brooms,  brushes,  palm  of  hand, 
And  scourers  in  the  office  strong  and  clever, 

In  spite  of  all  the  tubbing,  rubbing,  scrubbing, 

The  routing  and  the  grubbing. 
The  Blacks,  confound  them  !  were  as  black  as  ever  ! 

In  fact,  in  his  perennial  speech. 
The  Chairman  owned  the  Niggers  did  not  bleach, 
As  he  had  hoped, 
From  being  washed  and  soaped, 
A  circumstance  he  named  with  grief  and  pity ; 
But  still  he  had  the  happiness  to  say, 
For  self  and  the  Committee, 
By  persevering  in  the  present  way. 
And  scrubbing  at  the  Blacks  from  day  to  day, 
Although  he  could  not  promise  perfect  white. 
From  certain  symptoms  that  had  come  to  light. 
He  hoped  in  time  to  get  them  gray ! 


A   BLACK   JOB.  449 

Lulled  by  this  vague  assurance, 

The  friends  and  patrons  of  the  sable  tribe 

Continued  to  subscribe. 
And  vraited,  waited  on  -with  much  endurance  — 
Manj  a  frugal  sister,  thrifty  daughter  — 
Many  a  stinted  widow,  pinching  mother  — 
With  income  by  the  tax  made  somewhat  shorter, 
Still  paid  implicitly  her  crown  per  quarter. 
Only  to  hear,  as  every  year  came  round. 
That  Mr.  Treasurer  had  spent  her  pound  ; 
And  as  she  loved  her  sable  brother, 
That  Mr.  Treasui'er  must  have  another ! 

But,  spite  of  pounds  or  guineas, 

Instead  of  giving  any  hint 

Of  turning  to  a  neutral  tint. 
The  plaguy  Negroes  and  their  piccaninnies 
Were  still  the  color  of  the  bird  that  caws  — 

Only  some  very  aged  souls, 
Showing  a  little  gray  upon  their  polls, 
Like  daws ! 

However,  nothing  dashed 
By  such  repeated  failures,  or  abashed, 
The  Court  still  met ;  —  the  Chairman  and  Directors, 
The  Secretary,  good  at  pen  and  ink, 
The  worthy  Treasurer,  who  kept  the  chink, 
And  all  the  cash  Collectors ; 
With  hundreds  of  that  class,  so  kindly  credulous, 
Without  whose  help  no  charlatan  alive 
Or  Bubble  Company  could  hope  to  thrive. 
Or  busy  Chevalier,  however  sedulous  — 
Those  good  and  easy  innocents,  in  fact. 

Who,  willingly  recei\'ing  chaff  for  corn, 
As  pointed  out  by  Butler's  tact, 
38* 


450  A    BLACK    JOB. 

Still  find  a  secret  pleasure  in  the  act 
Of  being  plucked  and  shorn  ! 

However,  in  long  hundreds  there  they  were. 
Thronging  the  hot,  and  close,  and  dusty  court, 
To  hear  once  more  adch-esses  from  the  Chair, 

And  regular  Report. 
Alas  !  concludincr  in  the  usual  sti'ain. 

That  what  with  everlasting  wear  and  tear, 

The  scrubbing-brushes  had  n"t  got  a  hair  — 
The  brooms  —  mere  stumps  —  would  never  sei've  again  — 
The  soap  was  gone,  the  flannels  all  in  shreds, 

The  towels  worn  to  threads, 
The  tubs  and  pails  too  shattered  to  be  mended  — 

And  what  was  added  with  a  deal  of  pain. 

But  as  accounts  correctly  would  explain. 
Though  thirty  thousand  pounds  had  been  expended  — 

The  Blackamoors  had  still  been  washed  in  vain  ! 

"  In  fact,  the  Negroes  were  as  black  as  ink. 

Yet.  still  as  the  Committee  dared  to  think, 

And  hoped  the  proposition  was  not  rash, 

A  rather  free  expenditure  of  cash — "' 

But  ere  the  prospect  could  be  made  more  sunny  — 

Up  jumped  a  little,  lemon-colored  man. 

And  with  an  eager  stammer,  thus  began. 
In  angry  earnest,  though  it  sounded  funny  : 
"  What !    More  subscriptions  !    Xo  —  no  —  no. —  not  I ! 
You  have  had  time  —  time  —  time  enough  to  try  ! 
They  won't  come  white!  then  why  —  why  —  why  —  why 
—  why, 

More  money?" 

"Why  !  "  said  the  Chairman,  with  an  accent  bland, 

And  gentle  waving  of  his  dexter  hand, 

"  Why  must  we  have  more  dross,  and  dirt,  and  dust, 


ODE   TO    RAE   WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  ^51 

T^Iore  filthy  lucre,  in  a  word  more  gold  — 

The  why.  sir,  very  easily  is  told, 
Because  Humanity  declares  we  must ! 
We  "ve  scrubbed  the  Negroes  till  we  've  nearly  killed  'em, 

And,  finding  that  we  cannot  wash  them  white. 

But  still  their  nigritude  ofiends  the  sight. 
We  mean  to  gild  'em  !  " 


ODE  TO   RAE  "WILSON,   ESQUIRE. 

«  Close,  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
And  weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice  ; 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise  !  "—Coleridge 

"  It 's  yery  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won't  let  a  body  be."—  Old  Ballad. 

A  WANDERER,  Wilson,  from  my  native  land, 

Remote,  0  Rae,  from  godliness  and  thee. 

Where  rolls  between  us  the  eternal  sea, 

Besides  some  furlongs  of  a  foreign  sand,— 

Beyond  the  broadest  Scotch  of  London  Wall ; 

Beyond  the  loudest  Saint  that  has  a  call ; 

Across  the  wavy  waste  between  us  stretched, 

A  friendly  missive  warns  me  of  a  sti'icture, 

Wherein  my  likeness  you  have  darkly  etched. 

And  though  I  have  not  seen  the  shadow  sketched, 

Thus  I  remark  prophetic  on  the  picture. 

I  guess  the  features  :  —  in  a  line  to  paint 

Their  moral  ugliness,  I  'm  not  a  saint. 

Not  one  of  those  self-constituted  saints, 

Quacks  —  not  physicians  —  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Censors  who  snifif  out  moral  taints. 

And  call  the  de\nl  over  his  own  coals  — 

Those  pseudo  Privy  Councillors  of  God, 

Who  wi-ite  down  judgments  with  a  pen  hard-nibbed  ; 


452  ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

Ushers  of  Beelzebub's  Black  Rod, 
Commending  sinners  not  to  ice  thick-ribbed, 
But  endless  flames,  to  scorch  them  like  flax, — 
Yet  sure  of  heaven  themselves,  as  if  thej  'd  cribbed 
The  impression  of  St.  Peter's  keys  in  wax  ! 

Of  such  a  character  no  single  trace 

Exists,  I  know,  in  my  fictitious  face  ; 

There  wants  a  certain  cast  about  the  eye  ; 

A  certain  lifting  of  the  nose's  tip  ; 

A  certain  curling  of  the  nether  lip, 

In  scorn  of  all  that  is,  beneath  the  sky ; 

In  brief,  it  is  an  aspect  deleterious, 

A  face  decidedly  not  serious, 

A  face  profane,  that  would  not  do  at  all 

To  make  a  face  at  Exeter  Hall, — 

That  Hall  where  bigots  rant,  and  cant,  and  pray, 

And  laud  each  other  face  to  face, 

Till  every  farthing-candle  ray 

Conceives  itself  a  great  gas-light  of  grace  ! 

Well !  —  be  the  graceless  lineaments  confest ! 
I  do  enjoy  this  bounteous  beauteous  earth  ; 

And  dote  upon  a  jest 
"  Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth;  " — 
No  solemn  sanctimonious  face  I  pull, 
Nor  think  I  'm  pious  when  I  'm  only  bilious  — 
Nor  study  in  my  sanctum  supercilious 
To  frame  a  Sabbath  Bill  or  forge  a  Bull. 
I  i^ray  for  grace  —  repent  each  sinful  act  — 
Peruse,  but  underneath  the  rose,  my  Bible ; 
And  love  my  neighbor,  far  too  well,  in  fact, 
To  call  and  twit  him  with  a  godly  tract 
That 's  turned  by  application  to  a  libel. 
My  heart  ferments  not  with  the  bigot's  leaven. 
All  creeds  I  view  with  toleration  thorou<?h. 


ODE   TO    RAE   WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  453 

And  have  a  horror  of  regarding  heaven 
As  anybody's  rotten  borough. 

What  else  'I  No  part  I  take  in  party  fray, 

With  tropes  from  Billingsgate's  slang-whanging  Tartars, 

I  fear  no  Pope  —  and  let  great  Ernest  play 

At  Fox  and  Goose  with  Fox's  Martyrs  ! 

I  own  I  laugh  at  over-righteous  men, 

I  own  I  shake  my  sides  at  ranters, 

And  treat  sham  Abr'am  saints  with  wicked  banters, 

I  even  own,  that  there  are  times  —  but  then 

It 's  when  I  've  got  my  wine  —  I  say  d canters  ! 

I  've  no  ambition  to  enact  the  spy 

On  fellow-souls,  a  spiritual  Pry  — 

'T  is  said  that  people  ought  to  guard  their  noses 

Who  thrust  them  into  matters  none  of  theirs : 

And,  though  no  delicacy  discomposes 

Your  saint,  yet  I  consider  faith  and  prayers 

Amongst  the  privatest  of  men's  afiairs. 

I  do  not  hash  the  Gospel  in  my  books, 
And  thus  upon  the  public  mind  intrude  it. 
As  if  I  thought,  like  Otaheitau  cooks. 
No  food  was  fit  to  eat  till  I  h^4  chewed  i*. 

On  Bible  stilts  I  don't  affect  to  staFk; 

Nor  lard  with  Scripture  my  familiar  talk, — 

For  man  may  pious  texts  repeat. 
And  yet  religion  have  no  inward  seat ; 
'Tis  not  so  plain  as  the  old  Hill  of  Howth, 
A  man  has  got  his  belly  full  of  meat 
Because  he  talks  with  victuals  in  his  mouth ! 

Mere  verbiage, — it  is  not  worth  a  carrot ! 
Why,  Socrates  or  Plato — where 's  the  odds?  — 


454  ODE   TO    PvAE   WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

Ouce  taught  a  Jay  to  supplicate  the  gods, 
And  made  a  Pollj-theist  of  a  Parrot ! 

A  mere  professor,  spite  of  all  his  cant,  is 
Not  a  whit  better  than  a  Mantis, — 
An  insect,  of  what  clime  I  can't  determine, 
That  lifts  its  paws  most  parson-like,  and  thence, 
By  simple  savages  —  through  sheer  pretence  — 
Is  reckoned  quite  a  saint  amongst  the  vermin. 
But  where  's  the  reverence,  or  where  the  nous 
To  ride  on  one's  religion  through  the  lobby. 

Whether  as  stalking-horse  or  hobby, 
To  show  its  pious  paces  to  "  the  house." 

I  honestly  confess  that  I  would  hinder 
The  Scottish  member's  legislative  rigs, 

That  spiritual  Pindar, 
Who  looks  on  erring  souls  as  straying  pigs. 
That  must  be  lashed  by  law,  wherever  found, 
And  driven  to  church  as  to  the  parish  pound. 
I  do  confess,  without  reserve  or  wheedle. 
I  view  that  grovelling  idea  as  one 
Worthy  some  parish  clerk's  ambitious  son, 
A  charity-boy  who  longs  to  be  a  beadle. 
On  such  a  vital  topic  sure  'tis  odd 
How  much  a  man  can  differ  from  his  neighbor  - 
One  wishes  worship  freely  given  to  God, 
Another  wants  to  make  it  statute-labor  — 
The  broad  distinction  in  a  line  to  draw, 
As  means  to  lead  us  to  the  skies  above. 
You  say  —  Sir  Andi-ew  and  his  love  of  law, 
And  I — the  Saviour  with  his  law  of  love. 

Spontaneously  to  Grod  should  tend  the  soul, 
Like  the  magnetic  needle  to  the  Pole; 


ODE    TO    KAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  456 

But  what  Avere  that  intrinsic  virtue  worth, 

Suppose  some  fellow,  with  more  zeal  than  knowledge, 

Fresh  from  St.  Andrew's  college, 
Should  nail  the  conscious  needle  to  the  north  ? 
I  do  confess  that  I  abhor  and  shrink 
From  schemes,  with  a  religious  willj-nillj. 
That  frown  upon  St.  Giles's  sins,  but  blink 
The  peccadilloes  of  all  Piccadilly  — 
My  soul  revolts  at  such  bare  hypocrisy, 
And  will  not,  dare  not,  fancy  in  accord 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  with  an  exclusive  lord 
Of  this  world's  aristocracy. 
It  will  not  own  a  notion  so  unholy. 
As  thinking  that  the  rich  by  easy  trips 
May  go  to  heaven,  whereas  the  poor  and  lowly 
Must  work  their  passage,  as  they  do  in  ships. 

One  place  there  is — beneath  the  burial-sod, 
"Where  all  mankind  are  equalized  by  death ; 
Another  place  there  is — the  Fane  of  God, 
Where  all  are  equal  who  draw  living  breath ;  — 
Juggle  who  will  elsewhere  with  his  own  soul, 
Playing  the  Judas  with  a  temporal  dole  — 
He  who  can  come  beneath  that  awful  cope, 
In  the  dread  presence  of  a  Maker  just, 
"Who  metes  to  every  pinch  of  human  dust 
One  even  measure  of  immortal  hope — 
He  who  can  stand  within  that  holy  door, 
"With  soul  unbowed  by  that  pure  spirit-level, 
And  frame  unequal  laws  for  rich  and  poor, — 
Might  sit  for  Hell,  and  represent  the  Devil ! 

Such  are  th(i  solemn  sentiments,  0  Rae, 

In  your  last  journey-work,  perchance,  you  ravage, 

Seeming,  but  in  more  courtly  terms,  to  say 

I  'm  but  a  heedless,  creedless,  godless,  savage  ; 


156  ODE    TO    RAE    WILSOX,    ESQUIKE. 

A  verj  Guj,  deserving  fire  and  fagots, — 

A  scofier,  ahyajs  on  the  grin, 
And  sadly  given  to  the  mortal  sin 
.    Of  liking  Mawworms  less  than  merry  maggots  ! 

The  humble  records  of  my  life  to  search, 

I  have  not  herded  with  mere  pagan  beasts ; 

But  sometimes  I  have  "sat  at  good  men's  feasts," 

And  I  have  been  "  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church." 

Dear  bells  !  how  sweet  the  sound  of  village  bells 

When  on  the  undulating  aii'  they  swim  ! 

Now  loud  as  welcomes  !  faint,  now,  as  farewells  ! 

And  trembling  all  about  the  breezy  dells. 

As  fluttered  by  the  wings  of  Cherubim. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  are  chanting  a  low  hymn ; 

And  lost  to  sight  the  ecstatic  lark  above 

Sings,  like  a  soul  beatified,  of  love. 

With,  now  and  then,  the  coo  of  the  wild  pigeon : — 

0  pagans,  heathens,  infidels,  and  doubters  ! 

If  such  sweet  sounds  can't  woo  you  to  religion, 

Will  the  harsh  voices  of  church  cads  and  touters  1 

A  man  may  cry  Church  !   Church  !  at  every  word, 
With  no  more  piety  than  other  people  — 
A  daw  's  not  reckoned  a  religious  bird 
Because  it  keeps  a-cawing  from  a  steeple ; 
The  Temple  is  a  good,  a  holy  place, 
But  quacking  only  gives  it  an  ill  savor ; 
While  saintly  mountebanks  the  porch  disgrace, 
And  bring  religion's  self  into  disfavor  ! 

Behold  yon  servitor  of  God  and  Mammon, 
Who,  binding  up  his  Bible  with  his  ledger. 

Blends  Gospel  texts  with  trading  gammon, 
A  black-leg  saint,  a  spiritual  hedger, 


ODE   TO    RAE   WILSOX,    ESQUIRE.  457 

Wlio  backs  his  rigid  Sabbath,  so  to  speak, 
Against  the  wicked  remnant  of  the  week, 
A  saving  bet  against  his  sinful  bias  — 
"  Rogue  that  I  am,"  he  whispers  to  himself, 
"  I  lie — I  cheat — do  anything  for  pelf, 
But  who  on  earth  can  say  I  am  not  pious  !  " 

In  proof  how  over-righteousness  reacts, 

Accept  an  anecdote  well  based  on  focts  ; 

On  Sunday  morning —  (at  the  day  don't  fret)  —  ■ 

In  riding  with  a  friend  to  Ponder' s  End 

Outside  the  stage,  we  happened  to  commend 

A  certain  mansion  that  we  saw  To  Let. 

"Ay,"  cried  our  coachman,  with  our  talk  to  grapple, 

•'You  're  right !  no  house  along  the  road  comes  nigh  it ' 

'T  was  built  by  the  same  man  as  built  yon  chapel, 
And  master  wanted  once  to  buy  it, — 

But  t'  other  driv  the  bargain  much  too  hard, — 
He  axed  suve-li/  a  sum  prodigious  ! 

But  being  so  particular  religious, 

Why,  that,  you  see,  put  master  on  his  guard  !  " 
Church  is  "  a  little  heaven  below, 
I  have  been  there  and  still  would  go," — 

Yet  I  am  none  of  those  who  think  it  odd 

A  man  can  pray  unbidden  fi-om  the  cassock, 
And,  passing  by  the  customary  hassock 

Kneel  down  remote  upon  the  simple  sod, 

A.nd  sue  in  forma  pauperis  to  God. 

As  for  the  rest. —  intolerant  to  none, 
WTiatever  shape  the  pious  rite  may  bear. 
Even  the  poor  pagan's  homage  to  the  sun 
I  would  not  harshly  scorn,  lest  even  there 
I  spurned  some  elements  of  Christian  prayer  — 
39 


458  ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

An  aim,  though  erring,  at  a  "  world  ayont" — 
Acknowledgment  of  good  —  of  man's  futility, 
A  sense  of  need,  and  weakness,  and  indeed 
That  very  thing  so  many  Christians  want  — 

Humility. 

Such,  unto  Papists,  Jews  or  Turbaned  Turks, 
Such  is  my  spirit  —  (I  don't  mean  my  wraith  !) 
Such,  may  it  please  you,  is  my  humble  faith ; 
I  know,  full  well,  you  do  not  like  my  ivorks  ! 

I  have  not  sought,  't  is  true,  the  Holy  Land, 
As  full  of  texts  as  Cuddie  Hedrigg's  mother. 

The  Bible  in  one  hand. 
And  my  own  commonplace-book  in  the  other  — 
But  you  have  been  to  Palestine  —  alas  ! 
Some  minds  improve  by  travel  —  others,  rather, 

Besemble  copper  wire  or  brass. 
Which  gets  the  narrower  by  going  further ! 

Worthless  are  all  such  pilgrimages  —  very  ! 
If  Palmers  at  the  Holy  Tomb  contrive 
The  human  heats  and  rancor  to  revive 
That  at  the  Sepulchre  they  ought  to  bury. 
A  sorry  sight  it  is  to  rest  the  eye  on, 
To  see  a  Christian  creature  graze  at  Sion, 
Then  homeward,  of  the  saintly  pasture  full, 
Rush  bellowing,  and  breathing  fire  and  smoke, 
At  crippled  Papistry  to  butt  and  poke. 
Exactly  as  a  skittish  Scottish  bull 
Haunts  an  old  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak. 

Why  leave  a  serious,  moral,  pious  home, 
Scotland,  renowned  for  sanctity  of  old. 
Far  distant  Catholics  to  rate  and  scold 
For  —  doing  as  the  Romans  do  at  Rome  7 


ODE   TO    RAE   WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  459 

With  such  a  bristling  spirit  wherefore  quit 
The  Land  of  Cakes  for  any  land  of  wafers, 
About  the  graceless  images  to  flit, 
And  buzz  and  chafe  importunate  as  chafers, 
Longing  to  carve  the  carvers  to  Scotch  collops'?  — 
People  who  hold  such  absolute  opinions 
Should  stay  at  home  in  Protestant  dominions, 
Not  travel  like  male  Mrs.  Trollopes. 

Gifted  with  noble  tendency  to  climb, 
Yet  weak  at  the  same  time, 
Faith  is  a  kind  of  parasitic  plant, 
That  grasps  the  nearest  stem  with  tendril  rings ; 
And  as  the  climate  and  the  soil  may  grant. 
So  is  the  sort  of  tree  to  which  it  clings. 
Consider,  then,  before,  like  Hurlothrumbo, 
You  aim  your  club  at  any  creed  on  earth, 
That,  by  the  simple  accident  of  birth, 
You  might  have  been  High  Priest  to  Mumbo  Jumbo. 

For  me  —  through  heathen  ignorance  perchance, 

Not  having  knelt  in  Palestine, —  I  feel 

None  of  that  griffinish  excess  of  zeal, 

Some  travellers  would  blaze  with  here  in  France. 

Dolls  I  can  see  in  Yirgin-like  array, 

Nor  for  a  scujHe  with  the  idols  hanker 

Like  crazy  Quixotte  at  the  puppet's  play, 

K  their  "  offence  be  rank,"  should  mine  be  rancor  7 

Mild  light,  and  by  degrees,  should  be  the  plan 
To  cure  the  dark  and  erring  mind ; 
But  who  would  rush  at  a  benighted  man. 
And  give  him  two  black  eyes  for  being  blind  7 

Suppose  the  tender  but  luxuriant  hop 
Around  a  cankered  stem  should  twine. 


460  ODE   TO    RAE    WILSOXj    ESQUIRE. 

What  Kentish  boor  would  tear  away  the  prop 
So  roughlj  as  to  wound,  naj.  kill  the  bine  ? 

The  images,  't  is  true,  are  strangely  dressed, 
With  gauds  and  toys  extremely  out  of  season ; 
The  carving  nothing  of  the  very  best, 
The  whole  repugnant  to  the  eye  of  Reason, 
Shocking  to  Taste,  and  to  Fine  Arts  a  treason  — 
Yet  ne'er  o"erlook  in  bigotry  of  sect 
One  truly  Catholic,  one  common  form. 

At  which  unchecked 
All  Christian  hearts  may  kindle  or  keep  warm. 

Say,  was  it  to  my  spirit's  gain  or  loss. 

One  bright  and  balmy  morning,  as  I  went 

From  Liege's  lovely  environs  to  Ghent, 

If  hard  by  the  wayside  I  found  a  cross. 

That  made  me  breathe  a  prayer  upon  the  spot  — 

While  Xatui'e  of  herself,  as  if  to  trace 

The  emblem's  use.  had  trailed  around  its  base 

The  blue  significant  Forget-Me-Not  7 

Methought.  the  claims  of  Charity  to  ui'ge 

More  forcibly  along  with  Faith  and  Hope, 

The  pious  choice  had  pitched  upon  the  verge 

Of  a  delicious  slope. 
Giving  the  eye  much  variegated  scope  !  — 
"  Look  round,"  it  whispered,  "on  that  prospect  rare, 
Those  vales  so  verdant,  and  those  hills  so  blue ; 
Enjoy  the  sunny  world,  so  fresh,  and  fair, 
But  " —  (how  the  simple  legend  pierced  me  through  !  ; 

'•'Priez  pour  les  Malheureux."' 

With  sweet  kind  natures,  as  in  honeyed  cells, 

Religion  lives,  and  feels  herself  at  home  ; 

But  only  on  a  formal  visit  dwells 

Where  wasps  instead  of  bees  have  formed  the  comb. 


ODE   TO   RAE   WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  461 

Shun  pride,  0  Rae  !  —  whatever  sort  beside 
You  take  in  lieu,  shun  spiritual  pride  ! 
A  pride  there  is  of  rank  —  a  pride  of  birth, 
A  pride  of  learning,  and  a  pride  of  purse, 
A  London  pride  —  in  short,  there  be  on  earth 
A  host  of  prides,  some  better  and  some  worse  ; 
But  of  all  prides,  since  Lucifer's  attaint. 
The  proudest  swells  a  self-elected  Saint. 

To  picture  that  cold  pride  so  harsh  and  hard, 
Fancy  a  peacock  in  a  poultry-yard. 
Behold  him  in  conceited  circles  sail. 
Strutting  and  dancing,  and  now  planted  stiff, 
In  all  his  pomp  of  pageantry,  as  if 
He  felt  "  the  eyes  of  Europe  "  on  his  tail ! 
As  for  the  humble  breed  retained  by  man, 
He  scorns  the  whole  domestic  clan  — 

He  bows,  he  bridles, 

He  wheels,  he  sidles, 
As  last,  with  stately  dodgings  in  a  corner, 
He  pens  a  simple  russet  hen,  to  scorn  her 
Full  in  the  blaze  of  his  resplendent  fan  ! 

"  Look  here,"  he  cries,  (to  give  him  words,) 

"  Thou  feathered  clay, —  thou  scum  of  birds  !  " 
Flirting  the  rustling  plumage  in  her  eyes, — 

' '  Look  here,  thou  vile  predestined  sinner, 

Doomed  to  be  roasted  for  a  dinner. 
Behold  these  lovely  variegated  dyes  ! 
These  are  the  rainbow  colors  of  the  skies, 
That  heaven  has  shed  upon  me  con  oinore  — 
A  Bird  of  Paradise  ?  —  a  pretty  story  ! 
/  am  that  Saintly  Fowl,  thou  paltry  chick  ! 

Look  at  my  crown  of  glory  ! 
Thou  dingy,  dirty,  dabbled,  draggled  jill !  " 
39*  • 


i62  ODE    TO    RAE    WILSOX,    ESQUIRE. 

And  off  goes  Partlett,  wi-iggliug  fi-om  a  kick, 
With  bleeding  scalp  laid  open  bj  his  bill ! 

That  little  simile  exactly  paints 
How  sinnere  are  despised  hj  saints. 
By  saints  !  —  the  Hypocrites  that  ope  heaven's  door 
Obsequious  to  the  sinful  man  of  riches  — 
But  put  the  wicked,  naked,  bare-legged  poor. 
In  parish  stocks,  instead  of  breeches. 

The  Saints  7  —  the  Bigots  that  in  public  spout, 
Spread  phosphorus  of  zeal  on  scraps  of  fustian, 
And  go  like  walking  '-'Lucifers"  about 
Mere  living  bundles  of  combustion. 

The  Samts  !  —  the  aping  Fanatics  that  talk 
All  cant  and  rant  and  rhapsodies  high  flown  — 

That  bid  you  balk 

A  Sunday  walk, 
And  shun  Grod's  work  as  you  should  shun  your  own. 

The  Saints  !  —  the  Formalists,  the  extra  pious, 
"Who  think  the  mortal  husk  can  save  the  soul. 
By  trundling,  with  a  mere  mechanic  bias, 
To  church,  just  like  a  lignum-vitas  bowl ! 

The  Saints  !  —  the  Pharisees,  whose  beadle  stands 

Beside  a  stern  coercive  kirk. 

A  piece  of  human  mason-work, 
Calling  all  sermons  contrabands, 
In  that  great  Temple  that 's  not  made  with  hands  ! 

Thrice  blessed,  rather,  is  the  man  with  whom 
The  gracious  prodigality  of  nature. 
The  balm,  the  bhss,  the  beauty,  and  the  bloom, 
The  bounteous  providence  in  every  feature. 
Recall  the  good  Creator  to  his  creature. 
Making  all  earth  a  fane,  all  heaven  its  dome  ! 


ODE   TO    RAE   WILSON,    ESQUIBB.  463 

To  his  tuned  spirit  the  wild  heather-bells 

Ring  Sabbath  knells  ; 
The  jubilate  of  the  soaring  lark 

Is  chant  of  clerk  ; 
For  Choir,  the  thrush  and  the  gregarious  linnet ; 
The  sod's  a  cushion  for  his  pious  want; 
And,  consecrated  by  the  heaven  within  it, 
The  sky-blue  pool,  a  font. 
Each  cloud-capped  mountain  is  a  holy  altar  ; 

An  organ  breathes  in  every  grove  ; 
And  the  full  heart 's  a  Psalter, 
Rich  in  deep  hymns  of  gratitude  and  love ! 

Sufficiently  by  stern  necessitarians 
Poor  Nature,  with  her  face  begrimed  by  dust, 
Is  stoked,  coked,  smoked,  and  almost  choked;  but  must 
Religion  have  its  own  Utilitarians. 
Labelled  with  evangelical  phylacteries. 
To  make  the  road  to  heaven  a  railway  trust, 
'    And  churches-that's  the  naked  fact-  mere  factories  '. 

0  !  simply  open  wide  the  temple  door. 
And  let  the  solemn,  swelling  organ  greet, 

With  Voluntaries  meet, 
The  7iHUiJig  advent  of  the  rich  and  poor  ! 
And  while  to  God  the  loud  Hosannas  soar. 
With  rich  vibrations  from  the  vocal  throng  — 
From  quiet  shades  that  to  the  woods  belong, 

And  brooks  with  music  of  their  own. 
Voices  may  come  to  swell  the  choral  song 
With  notes  of  praise  they  learned  in  musmgs  lone. 
How  strange  it  is,  while  on  all  vital  questions. 
That  occupy  the  House  and  pul^lic  mmd. 
We  always  meet  with  some  humane  suggestions 
Of  gentle  measures  of  a  healing  kind, 


464  ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIKE. 

Instead  of  harsh  severity  and  vigor, 
The  saint  alone  his  preference  retains 
For  bills  of  penalties  and  pains, 
And  marks  his  narrow  code  with  legal  rigor  ! 
Why  shun,  as  worthless  of  affiliation, 
AVhat  men  of  all  political  persuasion 
Extol  —  and  even  use  upon  occasion  — 
That  Christian  principle,  conciliation  ? 
But  possibly  the  men  who  make  such  fuss 
With  Sunday  pippins  and  old  Trots  infii-m, 
Attach  some  other  meaning  to  the  term, 
As  thus : 

One  market  morning,  in  my  usual  rambles. 
Passing  along  WhitechapeFs  ancient  shambles, 
Where  meat  was  hung  in  many  a  joint  and  quarter, 
I  had  to  halt  a  while,  like  other  folks. 

To  let  a  killino;  butcher  coax 
A  score  of  lambs  and  fatted  sheep  to  slaughter. 
A  sturdy  man  he  looked  to  fell  an  ox, 
Bull-fronted,  ruddy,  with  a  formal  streak 
Of  well-greased  hair  down  either  cheek. 
As  if  he  dee-dashed-dee'd  some  other  flocks 
Besides  those  woolly-headed  stubborn  blocks 
That  stood  before  him,  in  vexatious  huddle  — 
Poor  little  lambs,  with  bleating  wethers  grouped, 
While,  now  and  then,  a  thirsty  creature  stooped 
And  meekly  snufied,  but  did  not  taste  the  puddle. 

Fierce  barked  the  dog,  and  many  a  blow  was  dealt, 
That  loin,  and  chump,  and  scrag  and  saddle  felt. 
Yet  still,  that  fatal  step  they  all  declined  it, — 
And  shunned  the  tainted  door  as  if  they  smelt 
Onions,  mint-sauce,  and  lemon-juice  behind  it. 


ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE.  46b 

At  last  there  came  a  pause  of  brutal  force  ; 

The  cur  was  silent,  for  his  jaws  were  full 

Of  tangled  locks  of  tarr  j  wool ; 
The  man  had  whooped  and  bellowed  till  dead  hoarse, 
"The  time  was  ripe  for  mild  expostulation, 
And  thus  it  stammered  from  a  stander-by  — 
''  Zounds  !  —  raj  good  fellow. —  it  quite  makes  me  —  why 
It  really  —  my  dear  fellow  —  do  just  tiy 
Conciliation  !  " 

Stringing  his  nerves  like  flint, 
The  sturdy  butcher  seized  upon  the  hint, — 
At  least  he  seized  upon  the  foremost  wether, — 
And  hugged  and  lugged  and  tugged  him  neck  and  crop 
Just  nolens  volens  through  the  open  shop  — 
If  tails  come  off  he  didn't  care  a  feather, — 
Then  walking  to  the  door,  and  smiling  grim. 
He  rubbed  his  forehead  and  his  sleeve  together  — 

"  There  !  —  I  "ve  conciliated  him  ! '' 

Again  —  good-humoredly  to  end  our  quarrel  — 
(Good  humor  should  prevail !) 
I  '11  fit  you  with  a  tale 
"Whereto  is  tied  a  moral. 

Once  on  a  time  a  certain  English  lass 

"Was  seized  with  symptoms  of  such  deep  decline, 

Cough,  hectic  flushes,  every  evil  sign. 

That,  as  their  wont  is  at  such  desperate  pass. 

The  doctors  gave  her  over  —  to  an  ass. 

Accordingly,  the  grisly  Shade  to  bilk. 
Each  morn  the  patient  quaffed  a  frothy  bowl 

Of  assinuie  new  milk. 
Robbing  a  shaggy  suckling  of  a  foal 
Wliich  got  proportionably  spare  and  skinny  — 


466  A    TABLE    or    ERRATA. 

Meanwhile  the  neighbors  cried  ' '  Poor  Mary  Ann  ! 
She  can't  get  over  it !  she  never  can  !  " 
When^  lo  !  to  prove  each  prophet  was  a  ninny, 
The  one  that  died  was  the  poor  wet-nurse  Jenny. 

To  aggravate  the  case, 
There  were  but  two  grown  donkeys  in  the  place ; 
And,  most  unluckily  for  Eve's  sick  daughter, 
The  other  long-eared  creature  was  a  male, 
Who  never  in  his  life  had  given  a  pail 

Of  milk,  or  even  chalk  and  water. 
No  matter  :  at  the  usual  hour  of  eight 
Down  trots  a  donkey  to  the  wicket-gate. 
With  Mister  Simon  Gubbins  on  his  back, — 
"Your  sarvant.  INIiss, —  a  werry  spring-like  day, — 
Bad  time  for  hasses,  though  !  good  lack  !  good  lack  ! 
Jenny  be  dead,  Miss, —  but  I'ze  brought  ye  Jack, — 
He  does  n't  give  no  milk  —  but  he  can  bray." 

So  runs  the  story. 

And,  in  vain  self-glory, 
Some  Saints  would  sneer  at  Gubbins  for  his  blindness ; 
But  what  the  better  are  their  pious  saws 
To  ailing  souls,  than  diy  hee-haws. 
Without  the  milk  of  human  kindness  1 


A    TABLE    OF    ERRATA, 

(^Hostess  loquitur.) 

Well  !  thanks  be  to  Heaven, 

The  summons  is  given  ; 
It 's  only  gone  seven, 

And  should  have  been  six ; 
There  's  fine  overdoing 
In  roasting  and  stewing. 


A  TABLE  OF  ERRATA. 

And  victuals  past  chewing 
To  rags  and  to  sticks  ! 

How  di-eadfullj  cliilly  ! 
I  shake,  willy-nillj ; 
That  John  is  so  silly. 

And^ever  will  learn 
This  plate  is  a  cold  one, 
That  cloth  is  an  old  one, — 
I  wish  they  had  told  one 

The  lamp  wouldn't  bum. 

Now  then  for  some  blunder 
For  nerves  to  sink  under  : 
I  never  shall  wonder, 

TVliatever  goes  ill. 
That  fish  is  a  riddle  ! 
It 's  broke  in  the  middle. 
A  Turbot !  a  fiddle  ! 

It 's  only  a  Brill ! 

It  "s  quite  over-boiled  too, 
The  butter  is  oiled  too, 
The  soup  is  all  spoiled  too, 

It  "s  nothing  but  slop. 
The  smelts  looking  flabby. 
The  soles  are  as  dabby, 
It  all  is  so  shabby 

That  Cook  shall  not  stop  ' 

As  sure  as  the  morning, 
She  gets  a  month's  warning, 
My  orders  for  scorning  — 
There  's  nothing  to  eat ! 
I  hear  such  a  rushing, 
I  feel  such  a  flushing, 


467 


468  A   TABLE    OF   ERRATA. 

I  know  I  am  blushing 
As  red  as  a  beet ! 

Friends  flatter  and  flatter, 
I  wish  thej  would  chatter ; 
What  can  be  the  matter 

That  nothing  comes  next  ? 
How  very  unpleasant ! 
Lord  !  there  is  the  pheasant ! 
Not  wanted  at  present, 

I  'm  born  to  be  vext ! 

The  pudding  brought  on  too, 
And  aimmg  at  ton  too  ! 
And  where  is  that  John  too, 

The  plague  that  he  is  7 
He  's  ofi'on  some  ramble  : 
And  there  is  Miss  Campbell, 
Enjoying  the  scramble, 

Detestable  Quiz  ! 

The  veal  they  all  eye  it, 
But  no  one  will  try  it, 
An  Ogre  would  shy  it 

So  ruddy  as  that ! 
And  as  for  the  mutton, 
The  cold  dish  it 's  put  on 
Converts  to  a  button 

Each  drop  of  the  fat. 

The  beef  without  mustard  ! 
My  fate  's  to  be  flustered, 
And  there  comes  the  custard 

To  eat  with  the  hare  ! 
Such  flesh,  fowl,  and  fishing, 
Such  waiting  and  dishing. 


A   TABLE    OF    ERRATA.  469 

I  cannot  help  wishing 
A  woman  might  swear  ! 

0  dear  !  did  I  ever  — 
But  no,  I  did  never  — 
Well,  come,  that  is  clever, 

To  send  up  the  brawn  ! 
That  cook,  I  could  scold  her, 
Gets  worse  as  she 's  older ; 

1  wonder  who  told  her 

That  woodcocks  are  drawn  ' 

It 's  really  audacious  ! 
I  cannot  look  gracious : 
Lord  help  the  voracious 

That  came  for  a  cram  ! 
There 's  Alderman  Fuller 
Gets  duller  and  duller. 
Those  fowls,  by  the  color, 

Were  boiled  with  the  ham ! 

Well,  where  is  the  curry? 

I  'm  all  in  a  flurry. 

No,  Cook  's  in  no  hurry  — 

...A  stoppage  again ! 
And  John  makes  it  wider. 
A  pretty  provider  ! 
By  bringing  up  cider 
Instead  of  champagne ! 

My  troubles  come  faster  ! 
There 's  my  lord  and  master 
Detects  each  disaster, 

And  hardly  can  sit : 
He  cannot  help  seeing, 
40 


470         A  ROW  AT  THE  OXFORD  ARMS. 

All  things  disagreeing ; 
If  he  begins  d — ing 
I  'm  ofif  in  a  fit ! 

This  cooking  ?  —  it 's  messing  ! 
The  spinach  wants  pressing, 
And  salads  in  dressing 

Are  best  with  good  eggs. 
And  John  —  yes,  already  — 
Has  had  something  heady, 
That  makes  him  unsteady 

In  keeping  his  legs. 

How  shall  I  get  through  it  ? 

I  never  can  do  it, 

I  'm  quite  looking  to  it, 

To  sink  by  and  by. 
0  !  would  I  were  dead  now, 
Or  up  in  my  bed  now, 
To  cover  my  head  now, 

And  have  a  good  cry  \ 


A.  ROW  AT  THE  OXFORD   ARMS. 
'Glorious  Apollo  from  on  high  behold  us."  — Old  Sons. 

As  latterly  I  chanced  to  pass 
A  Public  House,  from  which,  alas  ! 
The  Arms  of  Oxford  dandle  ! 
My  ear  was  startled  by  a  din, 
That  made  me  tremble  in  my  skin, 
A  dreadful  hubbub  from  within, 
Of  voices  in  a  wrangle  — 
Voices  loud,  and  voices  high, 
With  now  and  then  a  party-cry, 
Such  as  used  in  times  gone  by 


ir- 


A  ROW  AT  THE  OXFORD  ARMS.         47l 

To  scare  the  British  border  : 

When  foes  from  North  and  South  of  Tweed  — 

Neighbors  —  and  of  Christian  creed — 

Met  in  hate  to  fight  and  bleed, 

Upsetting  Social  Order. 

Surprised,  I  turned  me  to  the  crowd. 

Attracted  bj  that  tumult  loud, 

And  asked  a  gazer,  beetle-browed, 

The  cause  of  such  disquiet. 

When,  lo  !  the  solemn-looking  man 

First  shook  his  head  on  Burleigh's  plan, 

And  then,  with  fluent  tongue,  began 

His  version  of  the  riot : 

A  row  !  —  why,  yes, —  a  pretty  row,  you  might  hear  from 

this  to  Garmany, 
And  what  is  worse,  it 's  all  got  up  among  the  Sons  of  Har- 
mony, 
The  more  's  the  shame  for  them  as  used  to  be  in  time  and  tune, 
And  all  unite  in  chorus  like  the  singing-birds  in  June  ! 
Ah  !  many  a  pleasant  chant  I've  heard  in  passing  here  along, 
When  Swiveller  was  President  a-knockino;  down  a  sono; ; 
But  Dick  's  resigned  the  post,  you  see,  and  all  them  shouts 

and  hollers 
Is  'cause  two  other  candidates,  some  sort  of  larned  scholars, 
Are  squabbling  to  be  Chairman  of  the  Glorious  Apollers  ! 

Lord  knows  their  names,  I  'm  sure  I  don't,  no  more  than 

any  yokel, 
But  I  never  heard  of  either  as  connected  with  the  vocal : 
Nay,  some  do  say,  although  of  course  the  public  rumor  varies. 
They  've  no  more  warble  in  'em  than  a  pair  of  hen  canaries  : 
Though  that  might  pass  if  they  were  dabs  at  t'  other  sort  of 

thing,      . 
For  a  man  may  make  a  song,  you  know,  although  he  cannot 

sinw; 


472  A    RO^Y   AT    THE    OXFOKD    ARMS. 

But,  lork !  it"s  many  folks'  belief  they 're  only  good  at  prosing, 
For  Catnach  swears  he  never  saw  a  verse  of  their  composing ; 
And  when  a  piece  of  poetry  has  stood  its  public  trials, 
If  pop'lar,  it  gets  printed  off  at  once  in  Seven  Dials, 
And  then  about  all  sorts  of  streets,  by  every  little  monkey, 
It 's  chanted  like  the   "  Dog's  Meat  Man,"   or  "  If  I  had  a 

Donkey." 
Whereas,  as  Mr.  Catnach  says,  and  not  a  bad  judge  neither, 
No  ballad  worth  a  ha'penny  has  ever  come  from  either, 
And  him  as  writ   "Jim  Crow,"   he  says,  and  got  such  lots 

of  dollars, 
Would  make  a  better  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollers. 

Howsomever  that 's  the  meaning  of  the  squabble  that  arouses 
This  neighborhood,  and  quite  disturbs  all  decent  Heads  of 

Houses, 
Who  want  to  have  their  dinners  and  their  parties,  as  is  reason. 
In  Christian  peace  and  charity  according  to  the  season. 
But  from  Number  Thirty-Nine,  since  this  electioneering  job, 
Ay,  as  far  as  Number  Ninety,  there  's  an  everlasting  mob ; 
Till  the  thing  is  quite  a  nuisance,  for  no  creature  passes  by. 
But  he  gets  a  card,  a  pamphlet,  or  a  summut  in  his  eye  ; 
And  a  pretty  noise  there  is !  —  what  with  canvassers  and 

spouters. 
For  in  course  each  side  is  furnished  with  its  backers  and  its 

touters ; 
And  surely  among  the  Clergy  to  such  pitches  it  is  carried, 
You  can  hardly  find  a  Parson  to  get  buried  or  get  married ; 
Or  supposing  any  accident  that  suddenly  alarms. 
If  you  "re  dying  for  a  surgeon,  you  must  fetch  him  from  the 

*"  Arms  :  " 
While  the  Schoolmasters  and  Tooters  are  neglecting  of  their 

scholars, 
To  write  about  a  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Appollers. 


A  ROW  AT  THE  OXFORD  ARMS.         473 

Well,  that,  sir,  is  the  racket ;  and  the  more  the  sin  and  shame 
Of  them  that  help  to  stir  it  up,  and  propagate  the  same ; 
Instead  of  vocal  ditties,  and  the  social  flowing  cup, — 
Eut  they  '11  be  the  House's  ruin,  or  the  shutting  of  it  up, — 
With  their  riots  and  their  hubbubs,  like  a  garden  full  of  bears, 
While  they  've  damaged  manj  articles  and  broken  lots  of 

stjuares, 
And  kept  their  noble   Club   Room  in  a  perfect   dust  and 

smother, 
By  throwing  Morning  Heralds,  Times,  aiid  Standards 

at  each  other ; 
Not  to  name  the  ugly  language  Gemmen  ought  n''t  to  repeat, 
And  the  names  they  call  each  other  —  for  I've  heard  'em 

in  the  street  — 
Such  as  Traitors,  Guys,  and  Judases,  and  Vipers,  and  what 

not, 
For  Pasley  and  his  divers  an't  so  blowing-up  a  lot. 
And  then  such  awful  swearing  !  — for  there  's  one  of  them 

that  cusses 
Enough  to  shock  the  cads  that  hang  on  opposition  'busses ; 
For  he  cusses  every  member  that 's  agin  him  at  the  poll, 
As  I  wouldn't  cuss  a  donkey,  though  it  hasn't  got  a  soul; 
And  he  cusses  all  their  families,  Jack,  Harry,  Bob,  or  Jim, 
To  the  babby  in  the  cradle,  if  they  don't  agree  with  him. 
Whereby,  although  as  yet  they  have  not  took  to  use  their  fives, 
Or,  according  as  the  fashion  is,  to  sticking  with  their  knives, 
I  'm  bound  there  '11  be  some  milling  yet,  and  shakings  by 

the  collars. 
Afore  they  choose  a  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollers ! 

To  be  sure,  it  is  a  pity  to  be  blowing  such  a  squall, 
Instead  of  clouds,  and  every  man  his  song,  and  then  his  call — 
And  as  if  there  was  n't  Whigs  enough  and  Tories  to  fall  out. 
Besides  politics  in  plenty  for  our  splits  to  be  about  — 
40* 


i74  A    ROW    AT    THE    OXFORD    ARMS. 

Why,  a  corn-field  is  suflBcient,  sir,  as  anybody  knows, 
For  to  furnish  them  in  plenty  who  are  fond  of  picking  cro^YS — - 
Not  to  name  the  Maynooth  Catholics,  and  other  Irish  stews. 
To  agitate  society  and  loosen  all  its  screws ; 
And  which  all  may  be  agreeable  and  proper  to  their  spheres, — - 
But  it 's  not  the  thing  for  musicals  to  set  us  by  the  ears. 
And  as  to  College  larning,  my  opinion  for  to  broach. 
And  I  've  had  it  from  my  cousin,  and  he  driv  a  college  coach, 
And  so  knows  the  University,  and  all  as  there  belongs. 
And  he  says  that  Oxford  's  famouser  for  sausages  than  songs, 
And  seldom  turns  a  poet  out  like  Hudson  that  can  chant, 
As  well  as  make  such  ditties  as  the  Free  and  Easies  want, 
Or  other  Tavern  Melodists  I  can't  just  call  to  mind  — 
But  it 's  not  the  classic  system  for  to  propagate  the  kind. 
Whereby  it  so  may  happen  as  that  neither  of  them  Scholars 
May  be  the  proper  Chairman  for  the  Glorious  Apollers. 

For  my  part  in  the  matter,  if  so  be  I  had  a  voice, 
It 's  the  best  among  the  vocalists  I  'd  honor  with  the  choice ; 
Or  a  poet  as  could  furnish  a  new  Ballad  to  the  bunch  ; 
Or,  at  any  rate,  the  surest  hand  at  mixing  of  the  punch  ; 
'Cause  why,  the  members  meet  for  that  and  other  tuneful 

frolics  — 
And  not  to  say,  like  Muffincaps,  their  Catichiz  and  Collec's. 
But  you  see  them  there  Initerants  that  preach  so  long  and  loud, 
And  always  take  advantage  like  the  prigs  of  any  crowd, 
Have  brought  their  jangling  voices,  and  as  far  as  they  can 

compass, 
Have  turned  a  tavern  shindy  to  a  seriouser  rumpus. 
And  him  as  knows  most  hymns  —  although  I  can't  see  how 

it  follers  — 
They  want  to  be  the  Chairman  of  the  Glorious  Ajopollers  ! 

Well,  that's  the  row — and  who  can  guess  the  upshot  after  all? 
Whether  Harmony  will  ever  make  the  '•'  Arms  "  her  House 
of  callj 


ETCHING   MORALIZED.  475 

Or  whether  this  here  mobbing  —  as  some  longish  heads  fore- 
tell it, 
Will  grow  to  such  a  riot  that  the  Oxford  Blues  must  quell  it, 
Howsomever,  for  the  present,  there  's  no  sign  of  any  peace 
For  the  hubbub  keeps  a  growing,  and  defies  the  iS!^ew  Police ; 
But  if  I  was  in  the  Yestrj,  and  a  leading  sort  of  Man, 
Or  a  Member  of  the  Vocals,  to  get  backers  for  my  plan. 
Why,  I  "d  settle  all  the  squabble  in  the  twinkle  of  a  needle, 
For  I'd  have  another  candidate  —  and  that's  the  Parish 

Beadle, 
Who  makes  such  lots  of  Poetry,  himself,  or  else  by  proxy. 
And  no  one  never  has  no  doubts  about  his  orthodoxy ; 
Whereby  —  if  folks  was  Avise  —  instead  of  either  of  them 

Scholars, 
And  straining  their  own  lungs  along  of  contradictious  hollers, 
They  '11  lend  their  ears  to  reason,  and  take  my  advice  as  follers, 
Namely — Bumble  for  the  Chairman  of  the  Glorious  ApoUers ! 


ETCfflNG    MORALIZED. 

TO    A    NOBLE    LADT. 

*'  To  point  a  moral."  —  Johnson. 

Fairest  Lady  and  Noble,  for  once  on  a  time. 
Condescend  to  accept,  in  the  humblest  of  rhyme, 

And  a  style  more  of  Gay  than  of  Milton, 
A  few  opportune  verses  designed  to  impart 
Some  didactical  hints  in  a  Needlework  Art, 

Not  described  by  the  Countess  of  Wilton. 

An  Art  not  unknown  to  the  delicate  hand 
Of  the  fairest  and  first  in  this  insular  land, 

But  in  Patronage  Royal  delighting ; 
And  which  now  your  own  feminine  fantasy  wins. 
Though  it  scarce  seems  a  lady-like  work  that  begins 

In  a  scratching  and  ends  in  a  biting  ' 


476  ETCHING   MORALIZED. 

Yet,  0  !  that  the  dames  of  the  Scandalous  School 
Would  but  use  the  same  acid,  and  sharp-pointed  tool, 

That  are  plied  in  the  said  operations — 
0  !  would  that  our  Candors  on  copper  would  sketch  ! 
For  the  first  of  all  things  in  beginning  to  etch 

Are  —  good  grounds  for  our  representations. 

Those  protective  and  delicate  coatings  of  wax^ 
Which  are  meant  to  re^st  the  corrosive  attacks 

That  would  ruin  the  copper  completely ; 
Thin  cerements  which  whoso  remembers  the  Bee 
So  applauded  by  Watts,  the  divine  L.L.D., 

Will  be  careful  to  spread  very  neatly. 

For  why  ?  like  some  intricate  deed  of  the  law, 
Should  the  ground  in  the  process  be  left  with  a  flaw, 

Aquafortis  is  far  from  a  joker  ; 
And  attacking  the  part  that  no  coating  protects 
Will  turn  out  as  distressing  to  all  your  effects 

As  a  landlord  who  puts  in  a  broker. 

Then  carefully  spread  the  conservative  stuff". 
Until  all  the  bright  metal  is  covered  enough 

To  repel  a  destructive  so  active  ; 
For  in  Etching,  as  well  as  in  Morals,  pray  note 
That  a  little  raw  spot,  or  a  hole  in  a  coat, 

Your  ascetics  find  vastly  attractive. 

Thus  the  ground  being  laid,  very  even  and  flat. 
And  then  smoked  with  a  taper,  till  black  as  a  hat, 

Still  from  future  disasters  to  screen  it. 
Just  allow  me,  by  way  of  precaution,  to  state. 
You  must  hinder  the  footman  from  changing  your  j^^ate, 

Nor  yet  suffer  the  butler  to  clean  it. 

Nay,  the  housemaid,  perchance,  in  her  passion  to  scrub, 
May  suppose  the  dull  metal  in  want  of  a  rub. 


ETCHING   MORALIZED. 


477 


Like  the  Shield  which  Swift's  readers  remember  — 
Not  to  mention  the  chance  of  some  other  mishaps, 
Such  as  having  your  copper  made  up  into  caps 

To  be  worn  on  the  First  of  September. 

But  aloof  from  all  damage  by  Betty  or  John, 
You  secure  the  veiled  surface,  and  trace  thereupon 

The  design  you  conceive  the  most  proper  : 
Yet  gently,  and  not  with  a  needle  too  keen. 
Lest  it  pierce  to  the  wax  through  the  paper  between, 

And  of  course  play  Old  Scratch  with  the  copper. 

So  in  worldly  affairs,  the  sharp-practising  man 
Is  not  always  the  one  who  succeeds  in  his  plan, 

Witness  Shylock's  judicial  exposui-e ; 
Who,  as  keen  as  his  knife,  yet  with  agony  found, 
That  while  urging  his  2^oint  he  was  losing  his  ground, 

And  incurring  a  fatal  disclosure. 

But,  perhaps,  without  tracing  at  all,  you  may  choose 
To  indulge  in  some  little  extempore  views. 

Like  the  older  artistical  people  ; 
For  example,  a  Corydon  playing  his  pipe. 
In  a  Low  Country  marsh,  with  a  Cow  after  Cuyp, 

And  a  Goat  skipping  over  a  steeple. 

A  wild  Deer  at  a  rivulet  taking  a  sup, 
With  a  couple  of  Pillars  put  in  to  fill  up. 

Like  the  columns  of  certain  diurnals ; 
Or  a  very  brisk  sea,  in  a  very  stiff  gale. 
And  a  very  Dutch  boat,  with  a  very  big  sail  — 

Or  a  bevy  of  Retzsch's  Lifernals. 

Architectural  study  —  or  rich  Arabesque  — 
Allegorical  dream  —  or  a  view  picturesque, 
Near  to  Naples,  or  Venice,  or  Florence ; 
Or  "  as  harmless  as  lambs  and  as  gentle  as  doves," 


1:78  ETCHIXG    MORALIZED. 

A  sweet  family  cluster  of  plump  little  Loves, 
Like  the  Chilch-en  by  Reynolds  or  Lawrence. 

But  whatever  the  subject,  your  exquisite  taste 
Will  insure  a  design  very  charming  and  chaste, 

Like  yourself,  full  of  nature  and  beauty  — 
Yet  besides  the  good  points  you  already  reveal. 
You  will  need  a  few  others  —  of  well-tempered  steel, 

And  especially  formed  for  the  duty. 

For  suppose  that  the  tool  be  imperfectly  set. 

Over  many  weak  lengths  in  your  line  you  will  fret, 

Like  a  pupil  of  Walton  and  Cotton 
Who  remains  by  the  brink  of  the  water,  agape, 
While  the  jack,  trout,  or  barbel,  effects  its  escape 

Through  the  gut  or  silk  line  being  rotten. 

Therefore  let  the  steel  point  be  set  truly  and  round. 
That  the  finest  of  strokes  may  be  even  and  sound, 

Flowing  glibly  where  fancy  would  lead  'em. 
But,  alas  for  the  needle  that  fetters  the  hand. 
And  forbids  even  sketches  of  Liberty's  land 

To  be  dra^\Ti  with  the  requisite  freedom  ! 

0  !  the  botches  I  've  seen  by  a  tool  of  the  sort, 
Rather  hitching,  than  etching,  and  making,  in  short, 

Such  stiflf,  crabbed,  and  angular  scratches, 
That  the  figures  seemed  statues  or  mummies  from  tombs. 
While  the  trees  were  as  rigid  as  bundles  of  brooms. 

And  the  herbage  like  bunches  of  matches  ! 

The  stiff  clouds  as  if  carefully  ironed  and  starched, 
While  a  cast-iron  bridge,  meant  for  wooden,  o'er-arched 

Something  more  like  a  road  than  a  river. 
Prithee,  who  in  such  characteristics  could  see 
Any  trace  of  the  beautiful  land  of  the  free  — 

The  Free-Mason  —  Free-Trader  —  Free-Liver  ! 


ETCHING   MORALIZED.  479 

But  prepared  by  a  hand  that  is  skilful  and  nice, 
The  fine  point  glides  along  like  a  skate  on  the  ice, 

At  the  will  of  the  Gentle  Designer, 
Who  impelling  the  needle  just  presses  so  much, 
That  each  line  of  her  labor  the  copper  may  touch 

As  if  done  by  a  penny-a-liner. 

And,  behold  !  how  the  fast-growing  images  gleam  ! 
Like  the  sparkles  of  gold  in  a  sunshiny  stream, 

Till,  perplexed  by  the  glittering  issue. 
You  repine  for  a  light  of  a  tenderer  kind  — 
And  in  choosing  a  substance  for  making  a  blind, 

Do  not  sneeze  at  the  paper  called  tissue. 

For,  subdued  by  the  sheet  so  transparent  and  white, 
Your  design  will  appear  in  a  soberer  light. 

And  reveal  its  defects  on  inspection. 
Just  as  Glory  achieved,  or  political  scheme. 
And  some  more  of  our  dazzling  performances,  seem 

Not  so  bright  on  a  cooler  reflection. 

So  the  juvenile  Poet  with  ecstasy  views 

His  first  verses,  and  dreams  that  the  songs  of  his  Muse 

Are  as  brilliant  as  Moore's  and  as  tender — 
Till  some  critical  sheet  scans  the  fiiulty  design, 
And.  alas  !  takes  tlie  shine  out  of  every  line 

That  had  formed  such  a  vision  of  splendor. 

Certain  objects,  however,  may  come  in  your  sketch, 
Which,  designed  by  a  hand  unaccustomed  to  etch. 

With  a  luckless  result  may  be  branded  ; 
Wherefore  add  this  particular  rule  to  your  code. 
Let  all  vehicles  take  the  wrong  side  of  the  road, 

And  man,  woman,  and  child,  be  left-handed. 

Yet  regard  not  the  awkward  appearance  with  doubt. 
But  remember  how  often  mere  blessings  fall  out, 


480  ETCHING    MORALIZED. 

That  at  first  seemed  no  better  than  curses ; 
So,  till  things  take  a  turn,  live  in  hope,  and  depend, 
That  whatever  is  wrong  will  come  right  in  the  end, 

And  console  you  for  all  your  reverses. 

But  of  errors  why  speak,  when  for  beauty  and  truth 
Your  free,  spirited  Etching  is  worthy,  in  sooth, 

Of  that  Club  (may  all  honor  betide  it !) 
Which,  though  dealing  in  copper,  by  genius  and  taste 
Has  accomplished  a  service  of  plate  not  disgraced 

By  the  work  of  a  Goldsmith  beside  it !  * 

So  your  sketch  superficially  drawn  on  the  plate 
It  becomes  you  to  fix  in  a  permanent  state. 

Which  involves  a  precise  operation. 
With  a  keen-biting  fluid,  which  eating  its  way  — 
As  in  other  professions  is  common,  they  say  — 

Has  attained  an  artistical  station. 

And  it's  0  !  that  some  splenetic  folks  I  could  name. 
If  they  must  deal  in  acids,  would  use  but  the  same 

In  such  innocent  graphical  labors  ! 
In  the  place  of  the  virulent  spirit  wherewith  — 
Like  the  polecat,  the  weasel,  and  things  of  that  kith  — 

They  keep  biting  the  backs  of  their  neighbors  ! 

But  beforehand,  with  wax  or  the  shoemaker's  pitch, 
You  must  build  a  neat  dyke  round  the  margin,  in  which 

You  may  pour  the  dilute  aquafortis. 
For  if  raw,  like  a  dram,  it  will  shock  you  to  trace 
Your  design  with  a  horrible  froth  on  its  face, 

Like  a  wretch  in  articulo  mortis. 

Like  a  wretch  in  the  pangs  that  too  many  endure. 
From  the  use  of  strong  loaters,  without  any  pure, 
A  vile  practice,  most  sad  and  improper  ! 

*  The  Deserted  Village,  illustrated  by  the  Etching  Club. 


ETCHING   MORALIZED.  481 

For,  from  painful  examples,  this  warning  is  found. 
That  the  raw  burning  spirit  will  take  up  the  ground^ 
In  the  church-yard,  as  well  as  on  copper  ! 

But  the  Acid  has  duly  been  lowered,  and  bites 
Only  just  where  the  visible  metal  invites. 

Like  a  nature  inclined  to  meet  troubles  ; 
And,  behold  !  as  each  slender  and  glittering  line 
Effervesces,  you  trace  the  completed  design 

In  an.  elegant  bead- work  of  bubbles  ! 

And  yet,  constantly,  secretly,  eating  its  way, 
The  shrewd  acid  is  making  the  substance  its  prey, 

Like  some  sorrow  beyond  inquisition, 
Which  is  gnawing  the  heart  and  the  brain  all  the  while 
That  the  face  is  illumed  by  its  cheerfullest  smile, 

And  the  wit  is  in  bright  ebullition. 

But  still  stealthily  feeding,  the  treacherous  stuff 
Has  corroded  and  deepened  some  portions  enough  — 

The  pure  sky,  and  the  water  so  placid  — 
And,  these  tenderer  tints  to  defend  from  attack, 
With  some  turpentine,  varnish,  and  sooty  lampblack, 

You  must  stop  out  the  ferreting  acid. 

But  before  with  the  varnishing  brush  you  proceed, 
Let  the  plate  with  cold  water  be  thoroughly  freed 

From  the  other  less  innocent  liquor  — 
After  which,  on  whatever  you  want  to  protect. 
Put  a  coat  that  will  act  to  that  very  effect. 

Like  the  black  one  that  hangs  on  the  Vicar. 

Then  the  varnish  well  dried  —  urge  the  biting  again, 
But  how  long  at  its  meal  the  eau  forte  may  remain, 

Time  and  practice  alone  can  determine  : 
But  of  course  not  so  long  that  the  Mountain,  and  Mill, 
41 


482  ETCHING   MORALIZED. 

The  rude  Bridge,  and  the  Figures,  whatever  you  will, 
Are  as  black  as  the  spots  on  your  ermine. 

It  is  true,  none  the  less,  that  a  dark-looking  scrap, 
With  a  sort  of  Blackheath,  and  Black  Forest,  mayhap. 

Is  considered  as  rather  Rembrandty : 
And  that  very  black  cattle,  and  very  black  sheep, 
A  black  dog,  and  a  shepherd  as  black  as  a  sweep, 

Ai'e  the  pets  of  some  great  Dilettante. 

So  with  certain  designers,  one  needs  not  to  name, 
All  this  life  is  a  dark  scene  of  sorrow  and  shame. 

From  our  birth  to  our  final  adjourning  — 
Yea,  this  excellent  earth  and  its  glories,  alack  ! 
What  with  ravens,  palls,  cottons,  and  devils,  as  black 

As  a  Warehouse  for  Family  Mourning  ! 

But  before  your  own  picture  arrives  at  that  pitch, 

While  the  lights  are  still  light,  and  the  shadows,  though  rich, 

More  transparent  than  ebony  shutters, 
Never  minding  what  Black-xlrted  critics  may  say, 
Stop  the  biting,  and  pour  the  green  fluid  away, 

As  you  please,  into  bottles  or  gutters. 

Then  removing  the  ground  and  the  wax  at  a  heat^ 
Cleanse  the  sui'face  with  oil,  spermaceti,  or  sweet  — 

For  your  hand  a  performance  scarce  proper  — 
So  some  careful  professional  person  secure  — 
For  the  Laundi-ess  will  not  be  a  safe  amateur  — 

To  assist  you  in  cleaning  the  copper. 

And,  in  truth,  'tis  a  rather  unpleasantish  job. 
To  be  done  on  a  hot  German  stove,  or  a  hob  — 

Though  as  sure  of  an  instant  forgetting 
When  —  as  after  the  dark  clearing  off  of  a  storm  — 
The  fair  landscape  shines  out  in  a  lustre  as  warm 

As  the  glow  of  the  sun  in  its  setting  ! 


ODE.  483 


Thus  your  Etching  complete,  it  remains  but  to  hint, 
That  with  certain  assistance  from  paper  and  print, 

Which  the  proper  jMechanic  will  settle, 
You  may  charm  all  youi-  Friends  —  without  any  sad  tale 
Of  such  perils  and  ills  as  beset  Lady  Sale  — 

"With  a  fine  India  Proof  of  your  Metal. 


ODE 

0>-   A   DISTANT   PROSPECT    OF    CLAPHAM   ACADEMT. 

Ah  me  !  those  old  familiar  bounds  ! 
That  classic  house,  those  classic  grounds, 

My  pensive  thought  recalls  ! 
What  tender  urchins  now  confine, 
What  little  captives  now  repine. 

Within  yon  irksome  walls  ! 

Ay,  that 's  the  very  house  !  I  know 
Its  ugly  windows,  ten  a-row  ! 

Its  chimneys  in  the  rear  ! 
And  there  's  the  iron  rod  so  high, 
That  drew  the  thunder  from  the  sky 
And  turned  our  table-beer  ! 

There  I  was  birched  I  there  I  was  bred ! 
There  like  a  little  Adam  fed 

From  Learning's  woful  tree  ! 
The  weary  tasks  I  used  to  con  !  — 
The  hopeless  leaves  I  wept  upon  !  — 

Most  fruitless  leaves  to  me  !  — 

The  summoned  class  !  —  the  awful  bow  ! 
I  wonder  who  is  master  now 

And  wholesome  anguish  sheds  ! 
How  many  ushers  now  employs. 


i84  ODE. 

How  many  maids  to  see  the  boys 
Have  nothing  in  their  heads  ! 

f         And  Mrs.  S  *  *  *  7— Doth  she  abet 
(Like  Pallas  in  the  palour)  yet 

Some  favored  two  or  three, — 
The  little  Crichtons  of  the  hour, 
Her  muffin-medals  that  devour, 

And  swill  her  prize — bohea? 

Ay,  there 's  the  playground  !  there  's  the  lime, 
Beneath  whose  shade  in  summer's  prime 

So  wildly  I  have  read  !  — 
Who  sits  there  now^  and  sMms  the  cream 
Of  young  Romance,  and  weaves  a  dream 

Of  Love  and  Cottage-bread  7 

Who  struts  the  Randall  of  the  walk  7 
Who  models  tiny  heads  in  chalk  7 

Who  scoops  the  light  canoe  7 
What  early  genius  buds  apace  7 
Where  's  Poynter  7  Harris  7  Bowers  7  Chase  7 

Hal  Baylis  7  bHthe  Carew  7  i ! 

Alack  !  they  're  gone — a  thousand  ways! 
And  some  are  serving  in  "the  Grreys," 

And  some  have  perished  young  !  —  j 

Jack  Harris  weds  his  second  wife ;  |  j 

Hal  Baylis  drives  the  xcayne  of  life  ;         •  j  j 

And  blithe  Carew — is  hung!  j 

Grave  Bowers  teaches  ABC  | 

To  Savages  at  Owhyee  ;  1 1 

Poor  Chase  is  with  the  worms !  —  j  j 

All,  all  are  gone  —  the  olden  breed  !  —  |  i 
New  crops  of  mushroom  boys  succeed, 

"  And  push  us  from  our  forms  ! 


t  " 


ODE.  485 

Lo  !  -where  they  scramble  forth,  and  shout, 
And  leap,  and  skip,  and  mob  about, 

At  play  where  we  have  played  ! 
Some  hop,  some  run,  (some  fall),  some  twine 
Their  crony  arms;  some  in  the  shine, 

And  some  are  in  the  shade  ! 

Lo  there  what  mixed  conditions  run  ! 
The  orphan  lad ;  the  widow's  son ; 

And  Fortune's  favored  care  — 
The  wealthy  born,  for  whom  she  hath 
Macadamized  the  future  path  — 

The  nabob's  pampered  heir  ! 

Some  brightly  starred  —  some  evil  born, — 
For  honor  some,  and  some  for  scorn, — 

For  fair  or  foul  renown  ! 
Good,  bad,  indifferent  —  none  they  lack  ! 
Look,  here  's  a  white,  and  there  's  a  black  ! 

And  there  's  a  Creole  brown  ! 

Some  laugh  and  sing,  some  mope  and  weep, 
And  wish  their  frugal  sires  would  keep 

Their  only  sons  at  home ;  — 
Some  tease  the  future  tense,  and  plan 
The  full-grown  doings  of  the  man, 

And  pant  for  years  to  come  ! 

A  foolish  wish  !     There  "s  one  at  hoop  ; 
And  four  ?ii  fives  !  and  five  who  stoop 

The  marble  taw  to  speed  ! 
And  one  that  curvets  in  and  out, 
Reining  his  fellow-cob  about, 

"Would  I  were  in  his  steed ! 

Yet  he  would  gladly  halt  and  drop 
That  boyish  harness  off.  to  swop 
41* 


486  ODE. 

With  this  world's  heavy  van  — 
To  toil,  to  tug.     0  little  fool ! 
While  thou  can  be  a  horse  at  school 

To  wish  to  be  a  man ! 

Perchance  thou  deem'st  it  were  a  thing 
To  wear  a  crown, —  to  be  a  king  ! 

And  sleep  on  regal  down  ! 
Alas!  thou  know'st  not  kingly  cares; 
Far  happier  is  thy  head  that  wears 

That  hat  without  a  crown ! 

And  dost  thou  think  that  years  acquire 
New  added  joys  7     Dost  think  thy  sire 

More  happy  than  his  son? 
That  manhood's  mirth?  —  0,  go  thy  ways 
To  Drury-lane  when plciys, 

And  see  ho^  forced  our  fun! 

Thy  taws  are  brave !  —  thy  tops  are  rare  ! 
Ow  tops  are  spun  with  coils  of  care, 

Our  dumps  are  no  delight !  — 
The  Elgin  marbles  are  but  tame, 
And  'tis  at  best  a  sorry  game 

To  fly  the  Muse  s  kite  ! 

Our  hearts  are  dough,  our  heels  are  lead, 
Our  topmost  joys  fall  dull  and  dead, 

Like  balls  with  no  rebound  ! 
And  often  with  a  faded  eye 
We  look  behind,  and  send  a  sigh 

Towards  that  merry  ground  ! 

Then  be  contented.     Thou  hast  got 
The  most  of  heaven  in  thy  young  lot ', 
There's  sky-blue  in  thy  cup! 


1 1 


A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW.  487 

Thou  "It  find  tbj  manhood  all  too  fast  — 
Soon  come,  soon  gone !  and  age  at  last 
A  sorry  breaking  up  ! 


A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW. 

0,  ■UUEX  I  Tvas  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind  !  — 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye. 

To  cast  a  look  behind  ! 

A  hoop  was  an  eternal  round 

Of  pleasure.     In  those  days  I  found 

A  top  a  joyous  thing  ;  — 
But  now  those  past  delights  I  drop  ; 
My  head,  alas  !  is  all  my  top, 

And  careful  thouo-hts  thestrincr  ! 

My  marbles. —  once  my  bag  was  stored,— 
Now  I  must  play  with  Elgin's  lord, 

With  Theseus  for  a  taw  ! 
My  playful  horse  has  slipt  his  string  ! 
Forgotten  all  his  capering, 

And  harnessed  to  the  law  ! 

My  kite  —  how  fast  and  far  it  flew  ! 
Whilst  I.  a  sort  of  Franklin,  drew 

My  pleasure  from  the  sky  ! 
'T  was  papered  o'er  with  studious  themes, 
The  tasks  I  wrote  —  my  present  dreams 

Will  never  soar  so  high  ! 

My  joys  are  wingless  all  and  dead  ; 
My  dumps  are  made  of  more  than  lead  ; 


! 
i 

1 

488 

A    RETEOSPECTH'E    REVIEW. 

My  flights  soon  find  a  fall ; 

My  fears  prevail,  my  fancies  droop. 

Joy  never  cometh  with  a  hoop, 

And  seldom  with  a  call ! 

My  football 's  laid  upon  the  shelf; 

I  am  a  shuttlecock  myself 

The  world  knocks  to  and  fro  :  — 

My  archery  is  all  unlearned, 

And  grief  against  myself  has  turned 

My  arrows  and  my  bow  ! 

No  more  in  noontide  sun  I  bask  : 

My  authorship 's  an  endless  task, 

My  head 's  ne'er  out  of  school : 

My  heart  is  pained  with  scorn  and  slight, 

I  have  too  many  foes  to  fight, 

And  friends  grown  strangely  cool !. 

The  very  chum  that  shared  my  cake 

Holds  out  so  cold  a  hand  to  shake, 

It  makes  me  shrink  and  sigh  :  — 

On  this  I  will  not  dwell  and  hang, 

The  changeling  would  not  feel  a  pang 

Though  these  should  meet  his  eye  ! 

No  skies  so  blue  or  so  serene                                            j 

As  then :  —  no  leaves  look  half  so  green 

As  clothed  the  play-ground  tree  ! 

All  things  I  loved  are  altered  so, 

1 

Nor  does  it  ease  my  heart  to  know 

That  change  resides  in  me  ! 

0,  for  the  garb  that  marked  the  boy, 

The  trousers  made  of  corduroy, 

TVell  inked  with  black  and  red ! 

The  crownless  hat,  ne'er  deemed  an  ill  — 

• 

A   RETROSPECTIVE   REVIEW.  489 

It  only  let  the  sunshine  still 
Repose  upon  my  head  ! 

0,  for  the  riband  round  the  neck  ! 
The  careless  dog's-ears  apt  to  deck 

My  book  and  collar  both  ! 
How  can  this  formal  man  be  styled 
Merely  an  Alexandrine  child, 

A  boy  of  larger  growth  ? 

0,  for  that  small,  small  beer  anew  ! 

And  (heaven's  own  type)  that  mild  sky-blue 

That  washed  my  sweet  meals  down  ; 
The  master  even  !  —  and  that  small  Turk 
That  figged  me  !  —  worse  is  now  my  work  - 

A  fag  for  all  the  town  ! 

0,  for  the  lessons  learned  by  heart ! 
Ay,  though  the  very  birch's  smart 

Should  mark  those  hours  again  ; 
I  'd  "  kiss  the  rod,"  and  be  resigned 
Beneath  the  stroke,  and  even  find 

Some  sugar  in  the  cane  ! 

The  Arabian  Nights  rehearsed  in  bed ! 
The  Fairy  Tales  in  school-time  read, 

By  stealth,  'twixt  verb  and  noun  ! 
The  angel  form  that  always  walked 
In  all  my  dreams,  and  looked  and  talked 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown  ! 

The  omue  bene  —  Christmas  come  ! 
The  prize  of  merit,  won  for  home  — 

Merit  had  prizes  then  ! 
But  now  I  write  for  days  and  days, 
For  fame  —  a  deal  of  empty  praise, 

Witliout  the  silver  pen  ! 


490  A    RETROSPECTIVE    REVIEW. 

Then  home,  sweet  home  !  the  crowded  coach 
The  joyous  shout  —  the  loud  approach  — 

The  winding  horns  like  rams'  ! 
The  meeting  sweet  that  made  me  thrill, 
The  sweet-meats  almost  sweeter  still, 

No  "  satis  "  to  the  "jams  !  "  — 

When  that  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind  ! 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye. 

To  cast  a  look  behind  ! 


NOTES. 


Ltcus  the  Centaur. 
Lycos  was  dedicated  by  the  poet  to  his  friend  and  connection, 
J.  H.  Reynolds,  Esq. 

Ode  to  Rae  Wilson. 
This  ode  was  first  published  in  the  London  Athenmum,  where  it 
appeared  with  the  following  introductory  letter. 

"  To  the  Editor  of  the  Atheneeum. 
"  My  dear  Sir  :  The  following  Ode  was  written  anticipating  the 
tone  of  some  strictures  on  my  writings,  by  the  gentleman  to  whom 
it  is  addressed.  I  have  not  seen  his  book  ;  but  I  know  by  hearsay 
that  some  of  my  verses  are  characterized  as  '  profaneness  and 
ribaldry,'  —  citing,  in  proof,  the  description  of  a  certain  sow,  from 
whose  jaw  a  cabbage-sprout 

'  Protruded  as  the  dove  so  stanch 
For  peace  supports  an  olive-branch.' 

If  the  printed  works  of  my  Censor  had  not  prepared  me  for  any  mis- 
application of  types,  I  should  have  been  surprised  by  this  misappre- 
hension of  one  of  the  commonest  emblems.  In  some  cases  the  dove 
unquestionably  stands  for  the  Divine  Spirit ;  but  the  same  bird  is 
also  a  lay  representative  of  the  peace  of  this  world,  and,  as  such, 
has  figured  time  out  of  mind  in  allegorical  pictures.  The  sense  in 
which  it  was  used  by  me  is  plain  from  the  context ;  at  least,  it  would 
be  plain  to  any  one  but  a  fisher  for  faults,  predisposed  to  carp  at 
some  things,  to  dab  at  others,  and  to  flounder  in  all.  But  I  am  pos- 
sibly in  error.  It  is  the  female  swine,  perhaps,  that  is  profaned  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Oriental  tourist.  Men  find  strange  ways  of  marking 
their  intolerance;  and  the  spirit  is  certainly  strong  enough,  in  Mr. 
W.'s  works,  to  set  up  a  creature  as  sacred,  in  sheer  opposition  to  the 
jMussulman,  with  whom  she  is  a  beast  of  abomination.  It  would 
only  be  going  the  whole  sow. 

"  I  am,  dear  ear,  yours  very  truly, 

"Thos.  Hood." 


THE 


COMPLETE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


THOMAS    HOODs 


WITH 


%  liiogntjjljiciil  ^lietrl],  ani  Botes. 

EDITED    BY 

EPES     SARGENT. 
YOL.     II. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON   AND   COMPANY. 

MDCCCLVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congiess,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

EPES    SAEGENT, 

In  the  Cleri's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  MassachusettB. 


ELECTROTTPED    BV" 
THOMAS   B.  SMITH, 

82&S4  Ceekman  St. 

N.  Y. 


HUMOEOUS  POEMS 


Of 


THOMAS    HOOD, 


CsCLUDIXG    LOVE    AXD    LUNACY,   BALLADS,   TALES   AND  LEGENDS,   ODES 

AND   ADDRESSES  TO   GREAT  PEOPLE,    AND  illSCELLANEOCS 

POEMS.    NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED. 


EDITED     BT 

EPES      SAROENT 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON"  A^D  COMPANY. 


MDCCCLVII. 


INTRODUCTION. 


In  preparing,  about  a  jear  since,  an  edition  of  the  Poems 
of  Thomas  Hood,  we  thought  that  a  single  volume  would 
include  all  of  his  writings  in  verse  that  fell  within  the 
plan  of  our  series.  That  volume  embraced  all  the  poems 
contained  in  the  Moxon  collections  of  the  author's  senti- 
mental and  humorous  verse,  with  several  additions  from 
other  sources.  It  was  the  most  complete  collection  that 
had  been  made  at  the  time  of  its  appearance. 

We  soon  ascertained,  however,  that  it  would  not  entirely 
satisfy  the  demand  for  Hood's  productions.  ^Ye  received 
more  than  one  letter  suggesting  that  some  favorite  of  the 
writer's  was  omitted,  which  had  originally  appeared,  per- 
haps, in  a  magazine  or  annual,  and  had  not  been  inserted 
in  any  collection  of  the  author's  Poems.  This  deficiency, 
to  its  full  extent,  we  have  hardly  been  able  to  supply 
even  by  a  second  volume. 


Tl  INTRODUCTION. 

The  materials  of  the  present  volume  have  been  chiefly 
drawn  from  the  collections  of  his  humorous  pieces,  pub- 
lished by  the  author  under  the  title  of  Hood's  Oivii, 
W/mnsicaliiies,  and  Whims  and  Oddities.  To  these  wo 
have  added  a  few  poems  from  the  London  Magazine  and 
the  Neio  Monthly  Magazine^  that  appeared  in  those  pe- 
riodicals during  Hood's  editorial  relations  with  them,  and 
are  unquestionably  from  his  pen.  In  one  or  two  instances 
verses  rather  of  a  sentimental  than  an  humorous  character 
have  found  their  way  among  the  Miscellaneous  Poems,  but 
we  trust  they  will  not  be  considered  as  unwelcome  intruders. 

We  have  reserved  the  first  poems  of  Hood  for  the 
last  place  in  the  book  ;  assigning  them  to  a  quasi-appen- 
dix,  for  reasons  that  will  obviously  occur  to  the  reader. 
It  is  many  years  since  the  Odes  and  Addresses  to  Great 
People  have  been  reprinted,  and  some  of  the  allusions  in 
them  are  to  subjects  of  local  and  temporary  notoriety, 
which  require  the  few  annotations  that  we  have  annexed. 
To  us  these  very  clever  jeux  d' esprit  seem  to  merit  the 
high  commendation  that  they  received  from  Coleridge  on 
their  first  appearance.  His  letter  to  Lamb  on  their  au- 
thorship we  have  inserted  among  the  Notes  at  the  end  of 
the  volume. 

This  work  was  the  joint  production  of  Hood  and  the 
literary  friend  and  connection  to  whom  he  afterward  dedi- 
cated the  poem  of  Lycns.  In  Lord  Byron's  Journal, 
under  date  of  February  20,  1814,  an  entry  is  made  of 
his  having  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  young  Reynolds's 


INTRODUCTION.  Til 


poem,  entitled  Sajie.      "  The  lad  is  clever,"  his  lordship 
writes,  "but  much  of  his  thoughts  are  borrowed — whence 
the  reviewers  may  find  out.     I  hate  discouraging  a  young 
one ;   and  I  think — though  wild  and  more  oriental  than 
he  would  be,  had  he  seen  the  scenes  where  he  has  placed 
his   tale — that   he   has   much   talent,    and,    certainly,   fire 
enough."'     This  '-clever  lad"'  we  next  hear  of  among  the 
crack  contributors  of  the  London  Magazim — for  we  pre- 
sume that  the  author  of  Safie  is  the  same  John  Ham- 
ILTOX  Eeyxolds  described  by  Talfourd  as  one  of  that 
remarkable  corps,  and  as  "lighting  up  the  wildest  eccen- 
tricities  and  most   striking  features  of  many-colored  life 
with  vivid  fancy." 

In  the  Reminiscences  of  Hood  there  is  a  lively  sketch 
of  one  of  the  dinners  that   occasionally  brought  together 
the  contributors  to  the  Magazine,  which  serves  him  to  in- 
troduce  some  of  the  principal    characters  of  the  literary 
"  London  in  the  Olden  Time."     After  describhig  Elia,  and 
Barry  Cormvall,  and  the  Opium  Eater,  and  sundry  others 
of  hardly  less   note,  Hood  writes — "  That   smart,  active 
person  opposite,  with  a  game-cock -looking   head,  and  the 
hair  combed  smooth,  fighter  fashion,  over  his  forehead — 
with  one  finger  hooked  round  a  glass  of  Champagne — not 
that  he  requires  it  to  inspirit  him,  for  his  wit  bubbles  up 
of  itself— is  our  Edward  Herbert,  the  author  of  that  true 
piece  of  biography,  the   Life  of  Peter  Corcoran.      He  is 
'good  with  both  hands,'  like  that  Nonpareil  Randall,  at 
a  comic  verse  or  a  serious  stanza — smart  at  a  repartee — 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

sliarp  at  a  retort — and  not  averse  to  a  bit  of  mischief. 
'"Twas  he  who  gave  the  runaway  ring  at  Wordsworth's 
Peter  Bell.  Generally,  his  jests,  set  off  by  a  happy  man- 
ner, are  only  ticklesome,  but  now  and  then  they  are  sharp- 
flavored — like  the  sharpness  of  the  pine-apple.  Would  I 
could  give  a  sample." 

The  allusions  in  the  above  paragraph  enable  us  to  fol- 
low Reynolds  into  some  of  his  Protean  pseudonymes.  Wo 
know  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  poems  published  as 
the  Remains  of  Peter  Corcoran,  by  Taylor  and  Hessey,  who 
afterwards  became  the  publishers  of  the  London  Magazine^ 
and  this  identifies  him  with  the  Edward  Herbert  whom 
Hood  describes.  The  reference  to  the  Nonpareil  Randall 
is  explained  by  the  following  sonnet,  which  is  found 
among  Corcoran's  Remains : 

SONNET 

ON     THE     NONPAREIL. 

"With  marble-colored  shoulders, — and  keen  eyes, 

Protected  by  a  forehead  broad  and  white, 

And  hair  cut  close  lest  it  impede  the  sight, 

And  clenched  hands,  firm  and  of  punishing  size, 

Steadily  held,  or  motioned  wary-wise, 

To  hit  or  stop — and  kerchief  too  drawn  tight 

O'er  the  unyielding  loins,  to  keep  from  flight 

The  inconstant  wind,  that  all  too  often  flies, — 

The  Nonpareil  stands! — Fame,  whose  bright  eyes  run  o'er 

With  joy  to  see  a  Chicken  of  her  own, 

Dips  her  rich  pen  in  claret,  and  writes  down 

Under  the  letter  E,  first  on  the  score, 

"Randall — John — Irish  parents,  age  not  known — 

Good  with  both  hands,  and  only  ten  stone  four  I" 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

In  1821  a  volume  "was  published  in  London  -svith  the 
title  of  The  Garden  of  Florence,  and  other  Poems,  hy 
John  Hamilton.  This  was  also  the  work  of  Reynold.?. 
He  was  the  familiar  friend  and  correspondent  of  the  poet 
Keats,  and  they  had  undertaken,  in  a  sort  of  literary 
copartnership,  to  versify  some  of  the  tales  of  Boccaccio. 
The  accomplishment  of  this  plan  was  prevented  for  a  time 
by  other  engagements,  and  finally  frustrated  by  death. 
The  Pot  of  Basil  was  the  only  story  completed  by 
Keats,  "and  that  is  to  me  now,*'  says  his  literary  part- 
ner, "the  most  pathetic  story  in  existence."  Two  stories 
were  translated  by  Reynolds,  and  were  printed  in  the 
last-named  volume.  They  possess  a  merit  which  induces 
us  to  regret  that  he  did  not  persevere  in  the  enterprise. 
His  literary  labors,  however,  seem  to  have  been  mere  di- 
versions. Hood  speaks  of  him  as  having  abandoned  the 
Muses  for  engrossing.  He  probably  subsided  from  a  very 
promising  poet  into  a  highly  respectable  special-pleader  or 
conveyancer ;  perhaps  into  a  barrister  of  local  eminence. 
He  does  not  seem,  like  his  co-contributor  Barry  Cornwall, 
to  have  maintained  two  separate  existences — a  professional 
and  a  poetical  entity — but  to  have  suffered  the  latter  to 
be  absorbed  in  the  former,  or  only  to  appear  abroad  in  a 
mask.  "We  do  not  know  where  to  trace  him  after  the 
suspension  of  the  London  Magazine,  and  publication  of 
the  Odes  and  Addresses,  to  which  it  is  quite  time  that 
we  should  return.  We  must  first,  however,  present  our 
readci-s  with  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Peter  Corcoran' s  sentimental 


ll 


X  INTKODUCTION. 

verse,  which  may  explain  the  indifference  of  Mr.  Reynolds 
to  his  poetical  reputation  : 

SONNET. 

I  once  had  thought  to  have  embalmed  my  name 

With  Poesy  : — to  have  served  the  gentle  Muses 

With  high  sincerity: — but  Fate  refuses, 

And  I  am  now  become  most  strangely  tame, 

And  careless  what  becomes  of  Glory's  game — 

Who  strives — who  wins  the  wondrous  prize — who  loses  I 

Not  that  the  heavy  world  my  spirit  bruises ; 

But  I  have  not  the  heart  to  rush  at  Fame. 

Magnificent  and  mental  images 

Have  visited  me  oftentimes,  and  given 

My  mind  to  proud  delights; — but  now  it  sees 

Those  visions  going  like  the  lights  of  even : 

All  intellectual  grandeur  dimly  flees — 

And  I  am  quiet  as  the  stars  of  heaven! 

We  are  not  quite  certain  that  we  could,  in  every  case, 
refer  the  compositions  of  the  copartnership  to  their  re- 
spective authors,  though,  in  our  judgment,  most  of  them 
can  be  correctly  assigned  by  internal  evidence.  The  one 
that  Ave  most  hesitate  about  is  the  Address  to  Mr.  Dy- 
moke.  There  is  a  letter  of  Edward  Herbert's  in  the  Lryn- 
don  Magazine  giving  an  account  of  the  Coronation,  and 
mentioning  the  circumstances  which  are  alluded  to  in  the 
address,  and  in  the  first  study  of  it  that  may  bo  found 
in  the  Notes ;  but  we  are  in  doubt  whether  the  verses  arc 
to  be  ascribed  to  Hood  or  Reynolds.  Wc  may  better 
leave  this  question  for  every  reader  to  decide  for  himself, 
without  seeking  to  anticipate  his  judgment.  Perhaps  no 
one  will  find  much  difficulty  in  coming  to  a  correct  deci- 


INTRODUCTION. 


XI 


sion,  for  there  is  nothing  more  remarkable  in  IIood's  verse 
than  it.-j  entire  originality.  His  imagmation  is  singularly 
fertile.  His  invention  is  marvellous.  Hence  it  is  that 
though  he  sometimes  copies  himself,  he  never  mimics  an- 
other ;  and  though  you  can  not  always  say  that  a  poem  is 
not  Hood's,  a  poem  that  is  really  his  you  AYould  hardly 
attribute  to  any  one  else. 

The  Ode  to  Mr.  Graham  is  the  "  runaway  i^ing  at 
Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell"  to  which  Hood  alludes  in  the 
paragraph  we  have  quoted  above ;  and  which  Coleridge 
commends  in  the  letter  to  be  found  in  our  Notes.  So  the 
authorship  of  that  is  fixed  upon  Reynolds.  As  Hood 
does  not  give  hun  credit  for  the  two  other  pieces  favorably 
mentioned  by  the  poet,  we  think  that  the  Ode  to  the  Great 
Unknown  and  the  Address  to  Mrs.  Fry  may  be  reckoned 
as  Hoods  Oivn  by  his  silence  in  this  regard.  That  the 
Odes  to  Mr.  Martin,  Grimaldi,  and  Dr.  Kitchener  are  his, 
no  one  can  doubt ;  and  the  Addresses  to  Sylvanus  Urban, 
to  Elliston,  to  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Westminster,  and 
to  Maria  Darlington,  are,  we  think,  unequivocally  the  pro- 
ductions of  his  partner.  The  Ode  to  Parry  seems  to  bear 
the  marks  of  both  of  them,  and  the  same  may  be  said  of 
the  Address  to  the  Steam  Washing  Company  and  the  Ode 
to  Mr.  Bodkin.  If  any  one  can  help  us  to  a  better  guess 
than  we  have  made  on  the  face  of  the  poems,  we  will  insert 
it  in  our  second  edition. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LOVE  AND  LUNACY, 

....    47 

BAILEY  BALLADS ...    51 

Lines  to  Mary, 53 

No.  II.  "  Love  with  a  Witness," 

No.  III.  "  I 'd  be  a  Parody," 

POEMS,  BY  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN, '' 

Stanzas  written  under  the  Fear  of  Bailiffs, ^^ 

Sonnet  written  in  a  Workhouse, ^^ 

Sonnet— A  Somnambulist, ^^ 

Fugitive  Lines  on  Pawning  my  Watch, 

DOMESTIC  DIDACTICS, •  ^^ 

The  Broken  Dish, g- 

Ode  to  Peace, gg 

A  Few  Lines  on  completing  Forty-seven, ^^ 

To  Mary  Housemaid, 

BALLADS,  SERIOUS,  VERY  SERIOUS,  AND  PATHETIC,    ■    ■    '    '    'll 

Tlio  Poaclier ^5 

The  Supper  Superstition l^ 

A  Waterloo  Ballad, gj 

The  Duel, g^ 

The  Ghost gg 

Sally  Simpkin's  Lament ^^ 

John  Day, gg 

Pompey's  Ghost, 

ODES  TO  DIVERS  PERSONS  AND  FOR  SUNDRY  OCCASIONS,      .    .  05 

To  Mr.  Brunei, „„ 

To  the  Advocates  for  the  Removal  of  Smithfield  Market, ^^ 

To  the  Camelopard, j^^ 

To  Dr.  Hahnemann, „ 

For  St.  Cecilia's  Eve, jj^ 

To  Madame  Hengler, j^g 

To  Mr.  Malthus, 

To  St.  Switliin, ^^ 

For  the  Ninth  of  November, 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

NOTES 131 

TALES  AND  LEGENDS, 133 

The  Stag-Eyed  Lady, 141 

A  Legend  of  Navarre, !-i7 

The  Jlermaid  of  Margate, 153 

Our  Lady's  Chapel loS 

The  Knight  and  the  Dragon, 1G2 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  OF  WIT  AND  HUMOR, 173 

Stanzas  on  Coming  of  Age, ITj 

The  Lost  Heir, ISO 

A  Singular  Exhibition  at  Somerset  House, 165 

I  'ra  Going  to  Bombay, ISS 

'  Sonnet  to  a  Decayed  Seaman, 191 

A  Blow-Up, 192 

A  True  Storj-, 197 

There  's  No  Romance  in  That !     .    • 200 

The  Schoolmaster's  Motto, 204 

Huggins  and  Duggins, 206 

A  Storm  at  Hastings,  and  the  Little  Unknovra, 209 

Lines  to  a  Lady  on  her  Departure  for  India, 217 

Sonnet 213 

December  and  May, 219 

Moral  Reflections  on  the  Cross  of  St.  Paul's, 220 

A  Valentme, 221 

Sonnet  on  Steam, S23 

A  Recipe  for  Civiiizalion 224 

Lines  to  a  Friend  at  Cobham, 229 

Miss  Oliver's  First  Voyage, 230 

Sonnet  to  Lord  Wliarncliffe  on  his  Game  Bill, 232 

A  True  Story, 233 

Epigrams  composed  on  Reading  a  Diary  lately  Published, 240 

The  Monkey-Martyr, 241 

Craniology, • 24G 

A  Parthian  Glance, 249 

"  Don't  you  smell  Fire  ?" 252 

The  Widow, 251 

A  Butcher, ....  253 

The  Double  Knock,  .    . " S50 

The  Devil's  Album, 260 

Epigram  on  a  late  Cattle  Show  in  Smithfield, 2G1 

A  Report  from  Below, 262 

Epigram  on  the  Depreciated  Money, 265 

An  Ancient  Concert, 260 

The  Drowning  Ducks, 2G3 

The  Fall, 572 

The  Steam  Service, 274 

A  Lay  of  Real  Life, 278 

The  Angler's  Farewell, 2S0 

Sea  Song.    After  Dibdin 2E2 

The  Apparition,  2£3 


CONTENTS.  ^^ 

PAGE 

OKI 

Litile  0.  P.— An  African  Fact, ^^ 

Conveyancing, 2gg 

The  Burning  of  the  Love  Letter ^^^ 

Poem  —From  the  Polish, ^^^ 

French  and  English, .294 

Our  Village, 299 

A  Valentine, „Qg 

To  Fanny, 2(js, 

The  Boy  at  the  Nore, ^^ 

Shooting  Pains, 2^. 

Paired  7wt  Matched, ^^^ 

The  Compass,  with  Variations 

"  Please  to  Ring  the  Belle," 

The  Lament  of  Toby,  the  Learned  Pig, ^^^ 

My  Son  and  Heir, ^22 

The  Fox  and  the  Hen.— A  Fable, 

The  Comet.— An  Astronomical  Anecdote, 

I  cannot  Bear  a  Gun, 

Trimmer's  Exercise  for  the  Use  of  Children, ^^^ 

To  a  Bad  Rider, 22^ 

Symptoms  of  Ossification, ^^5 

Those  Evening  Bells, gjg 

Rondeau, ^^7 

Dog-grel  Verses,  by  a  Poor  Blind, ^^^ 

The  Kangaroo.— A  Fable ^^ 

Sonnet, n,^ 

The  Sub-:XIarine g^_ 

The  Sweep's  Complaint, ^.2 

Cockle  vs.  Cackle, ^^ 

On  a  Native  Smger, ^. 

The  Undpng  One, ' ^^ 

A  Custom-House  Breeze, ^^^ 

Pain  in  a  Pleasure-Boat, 

Quaker  Sonnet, ^^ 

Literary  and  Literal ggg 

I  'm  not  a  Single  Man, 

To  C.  Dickens,  Esq.,  on  his  Departure  for  Amenca, ^^^ 

A  Plan  for  Writing  Blank  Verse  in  Rhyme, ^_ 

A  Nocturnal  Sketch, ^77 

Up  the  Rhine, g.g 

Love  Language  of  a  Merry  Young  Soldier, ^^ 

Anacreontic,  for  the  New  Year, ^^ 

More  Hullahbaloo, g^g 

Ode  to  the  Printer's  Devil, !    .  300 

A  Good  Direction, ogj 

To  *  *  *  *  *,  «-ith  a  Flask  of  Rhine  Water, ^^^ 

Sonnet, 393 

!^;;:i?LS^orequest^-the  Author  to  write  someVerses  in  her  ^^^ 

SoM^eTJo  a  Scoich  Girl  washing  Linen  after  her  Country  Fashion,       .    .  394 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ODES  AND  ADDRESSES  TO  GREAT  PEOPLE,      .    : 395 

Preface  to  Third  Edition, 31)5 

Ode  to  Mr.  Graham,  the  Aeronaut, 397 

Ode  lo  Mr.  M'Adam,      . 405 

A  Friendly  Address  to  Mrs.  Fry,  in  Newgate, 410 

Ode  to  Richard  Martin,  Esq.,  M.P.  for  Galway, 410 

Ode  to  the  Great  Unknown, 4]g 

Address  to  Mr.  Dymoke,  the  Champion  of  England, 4;.s 

Ode  to  Joseph  Grimaldi,  Senior, 43; 

Address  lo  Sylvanus  Urban,  Esq.,  Editor  of"  The  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  43'j 

An  Address  to  the  Steam  Washing  Company, 430 

Ode  to  Captain  Parry^ 448 

Address  to  R.  W.  Elliston,  Esq.,  the  Great  Lessee, 455 

Address  to  jMaria  Darlmgton,  on  her  return  to  the  Stage, 459 

Ode  to  W.  Kitchener,  M.D., 462 

An  Address  to  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Westminster, 46i) 

Ode  to  H.  Bodiun,  Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of 
jMendicity, 474 

KOTES 479 


LOVE   AND   LUNACY. 


The  IMoon — who  does  not  love  the  silver  moon, 
In  all  her  fantasies  and  all  her  phases  ? 

Whether  fall-orhed  in  the  nocturnal  noon, 
Shining  in  all  the  dcwdrops  on  the  daisies, 
To  light  the  tripping  Fairies  in  their  mazes, 

While  stars  are  winking  at  the  pranks  of  Puck  ; 
Or  huge  and  red,  as  on  brown  sheaves  she  gazes ; 

Or  new  and  thin  when  coin  is  turned  for  luck ; — 

Who  will  not  say  that  Dian  is  a  Duck  ? 

But.  oh  !  how  tender,  beautiful  and  sweet, 

When  in  her  silent  round,  serene,  and  clear, 
By  assignation  loving  fancies  meet, 

To  I'ccompense  the  pangs  of  absence  drear ! 

So  Ellen,  dreaming  of  Lorenzo,  dear, 
But  distant  from  the  city  mapped  by  Mogg, 

Still  savr  his  image  in  that  silver  sphere, 
Plain  as  the  ]\Ian  with  lantern,  bush,  and  dog, 
That  used  to  set  our  ancestors  a-gog. 

And  so  she  told  him  in  a  pretty  letter. 

That  came  to  hand  exactly  as  Saint  Meg's 

Was  striking  ten — eleven  had  been  better ; 
For  then  he  might  have  eaten  six  more  eggs, 
And  both  of  the  bedevilled  turkey-legs, 


i=ii 


20 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 


With  relishes  from  East,  West,  North,  and  South, 

Draining,  beside,  the  teapot  to  the  dregs. 
Whereas  a  man  whose  heart  is  in  his  mouth, 
Is  rather  spoilt  for  hunger  and  for  drouth. 

And  so  the  Izidnejs,  broiling  hot,  were  wasted ; 

The  brawn — it  never  entered  in  his  thought ; 
The  grated  Parmesan  remained  untasted ; 

The  potted  shrimps  were  left  as  they  were  bought, 

The  capclings  stood  as  merely  good  for  naught, 
The  German  sausage  did  not  tempt  him  better, 

V/'hilst  Juno,  licking  her  poor  lips  was  taught 
There's  neither  bone  nor  skin  about  a  letter, 
Gristle,  nor  scalp,  that  one  can  give  a  setter. 

Heaven  bless  the  man  who  first  devised  a  mail ! 

Heaven  ])less  that  public  pile  which  stands  concealing 
The  Goldsmiths'  front  with  such  a  solid  veil ! 

Heaven  bless  the  Master,  and  Sir  Francis  Freeling, 

The  drags,  the  nags,  the  leading  or  the  wheeling, 
The  whips,  the  guards,  the  horns,  the  coats  of  scarlet, 

The  boxes,  bags,  those  evening  bells  a-pealing  ! 
Heaven  bless,  in  short,  each  posting  thing,  and  varlet, 
That  helps  a  Yv^'erter  to  a  sigh  from  Cliarlotte. 

So  felt  Lorenzo  as  he  oped  the  sheet, 

Where,  first,  the  darling  signature  he  kissed 

And  then,  recurring  to  its  contents  sweet 
With  thirsty  eyes,  a  phrase  I  must  enlist, 
He  (jnlped  the  words,  to  hasten  to  their  gist ; 

In  mortal  ecstasy  his  soul  Avas  bound — 

When,  lo  !  with  features  all  nt  once  a-twist, 

He  gave  a  whistle,  wild  enough  in  sound 

To  summon  Faustus's  Infernal  Hound ! 


LOVE    AND    LUXACY.  21 

Alas  !  what  little  miffs  and  tiffs  in  love, 

A  snubbish  word,  or  pouting  look  misfciken, 
"Will  loosen  screws  with  sweethearts  hand  and  glove, 

Oh  !  love,  rock  firm  when  chimney-pots  were  shaken, 

A  pettish  breath  will  into  huffs  awaken, 
To  spit  like  hump-backed  cats,  and  snarling  Towzers ! 

Till  hearts  are  wrecked  and  foundered,  and  forsaken, 
As  ships  go  to  Old  Davy,  Lord  knoAvs  how,  sirs. 
While  heaven  is  blue  enough  for  Dutchmen's  trowsers  ! 

'"  The  moon's  at  full,  love,  and  I  think  of  you" — 

Who  would  have  thought  that  such  a  kind  P.S. 
Could  make  a  man  turn  white,  then  red,  then  blue, 

Then  black,  and  knit  his  eyebrows  and  compress 

His  teeth,  as  if  about  to  effervesce 
Like  certain  people  when  they  lose  at  whist ! 

So  looked  the  chafed  Lorenzo,  ne'ertheless, 
And,  in  a  trice,  the  paper  he  had  kissed 
Yfas  crumpled  like  a  snowball  in  his  fist ! 

Ah  !  had  he  been  less  versed  in  scientifics — 
More  ignorant,  in  short,  of  what  is  what — 

He  ne'er  had  flared  up  in  such  calorifics  ; 
But  he  woidd  seek  societies,  and  trot 
To  Clubs — Mechanics'  Institutes — and  got 

With  Birkbeck-Bartley— Combe -George  Robins— Rennie, 
And  other  lecturing  men.     And  had  he  not 

That  work,  of  weekly  parts,  which  sells  so  many, 

The  Copper-bottomed  Magazine — or  '"Penny?'' 

But,  of  all  learned  pools  whereon,  or  in, 

Men  dive  like  dabchicks,  or  like  swallows  skim. 

Some  hardly  damped,  some  Avetted  to  the  skin. 

Some  drowned  like  pigs  when  they  attempt  to  swim, 


22  LOVE  AXD  LUXACY. 

Astronomy  was  most  Lorenzo's  whim, 
('Tis  studied  bj  a  Prince  among  the  Burmans)  ; 

He  loved  those  heavenly  bodies  which,  the  Hymn 
Of  Addison  declares,  preach  solemn  sermons, 
While  waltzing  on  their  pivots  like  young  Germans. 

Night  after  night,  with  telescope  in  hand. 
Supposing  that  the  night  Avas  fair  and  clear, 

Aloft,  on  the  house-top,  ho  took  his  stand, 

Till  he  obtained  to  know  each  twinkling  sphere 
Better,  I  doubt,  than  Milton's  '■'  Starry  Vere;" 

Thus,  reading  through  poor  Ellen's  fond  epistle, 
He  soon  espied  the  flaw— the  lapse  so  sheer 

That  made  him  raise  his  hair  in  such  a  bristle, 

And  like  the  Boatswain  of  the  Storm-Ship,  whistle. 

"  The  moon  's  at  full,  love,  and  I  think  of  thee," — 
"  Indeed  !   I'm  very  much  her  humble  debtor, 

But  not  the  moon-calf  she  would  have  me  be, 
Zounds  !  does  she  fancy  that  I  know  no  better?" 
Herewith,  at  either  corner  of  the  letter 

He  gave  a  most  ferocious,  rending,  pull ; — 
"  0  woman  !  woman  !  that  no  vovrs  can  fetter, 

A  moon  to  stay  for  three  weeks  at  the  full ! 

By  Jove ;  a  very  pretty  cock-and-bull  ? 

"  The  moon  at  full !   't  was  very  finely  reckoned  I 
Why  so  she  wrote  me  word  upon  the  first, 

The  twelfth,  and  now  upon  the  twenty-second — 
Full !— yes — it  must  be  full  enough  to  burst  I 
But  let  her  go — of  all  vale  jilts  the  worst" — 

Here  vritli  his  thumbs  he  gave  contemptuous  snaps, 
Anon  he  blubbered  like  a  child  that 's  nursed, 

And  then  he  hit  the  table  frightful  raps, 

And  stamped  till  he  had  broken  both  his  straps. 


r— 


LOVE    AXD    LUX  ACT.  23 

"  The  moon  *s  at  full — and  I  nia  in  licr  thought — 

No  uoubt :  I  do  believe  it  in  rcy  soul  i'' 
Here  lie  threw  up  his  iicad  and  gave  a  snort 

Like  a  voung  horse  first  harnessed  to  a  pole; 

"  The  moon  ls  full — aj,  so  is  this  d — d  bowl !" 
And,  irrinninir  like  the  sourest  of  curmudircons. 

Globe — water — fishes — he  dashed  down  the  whole, 
Strewing  the  carpet  with  the  gasping  gudgeons ; 
Men  do  the  stranirest  things  in  such  love-dudc«;eons. 

'•  I  fill  her  thoughts — her  memory's  vice  goront  ? 

No,  no — some  paltrj  pup]:>y — three  weeks  old — 
And  round  as  Norval's  shield"- — thus  incoherent 

His  fancies  grew  as  he  went  on  to  scold ; 

So  stormy  waves  are  into  breakers  rolled, 
Worked  np  at  last  to  mere  chaotic  vrroth — 

This — that — heads — tails — thoughts  jumbled  uncontrolled 
As  onionS;  turnips,  meat,  in  boiling  broth. 
By  turns  bob  up,  and  splutter  in  the  froth. 

"  Fool  that  I  was  to  let  a  baby  face — 

A  full  one — like  a  hunter's — round  and  red — 
Ass  that  I  am,  to  give  her  more  a  place 

Within  this  heart" — and  here  he  struck  his  head. 

'•  "Sdeath  are  the  almanac-compilers  dead? 
But  no — "tis  all  an  artifice — a  trick. 

Some  newer,  face — some  dandy  underbred — 
Well — he  it  so — of  all  the  sex  I'm  sick  !"' 
Here  Juno  wondered  why  she  got  a  kick. 

'•  '  The  moon  is  full' — where  "s  her  infernal  scrawl? 

■  And  you  are  in  my  thought :  tliat  silver  ray 
Will  ever  your  dear  image  thus  recall" — 

My  image?     Mine!     She 'd  barter  it  away 


24  LOVE    AXD    LrXACY. 

For  Pretty  Poll's  on  an  Italian's  tray  ! 
Three  weeks,  full  weeks — it  is  too  plain — too  bad — 

Too  gross  and  palpable  !     Oh  cursed  day  ! 
Mj  senses  have  not  crazed — but  if  they  had — 
Such  moons  would  worry  a  Mad  Doctor  mad  ! 

'•  Oh  Nature  i  wherefore  did  you  frame  a  lip 

So  fair  for  falsehood  ?     "Wherefore  have  you  dressed 

Deceit  so  angel-like?"'     With  sudden  rip 
He  tore  six  new  buff  buttons  from  his  vest, 
And  groped  with  hand  impetuous  at  his  breast, 

As  if  some  flea  from  Juno's  fleecy  curls 
Had  skipped  to  batten  on  a  human  chest. 

But  no — the  hand  comes  forth,  and  down  it  hurls 

A  lady's  miniature  beset  with  pearls. 

Yet  long  upon  the  floor  it  did  not  tarry, 

Before  another  outrage  could  be  planned : 
Poor  Juno,  who  had  learned  to  fetch  and  carry. 

Picked  up  and  brought  it  to  her  master's  hand. 

Who  seized  it,  and  the  mimic  features  scanned ; 
Yet  not  with  the  old  loving  ardent  drouth, 

He  only  saw  in  that  fair  face,  so  bland, 
Look  how  he  would  at  it.  East,  West,  North.  South, 
A  moon,  a  full  one,  with  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth. 

■'  I'll  go  to  her,'' — herewith  his  hat  he  touched. 

And  gave  his  arm  a  most  heroic  brandish : 
"  But  no — I'll  write" — and  here  a  spoon  he  clutched, 

And  rammed  it  with  such  fury  in  the  standish, 

A  sable  flood,  like  Niger  the  outlandish, 
Came  rushing  forth — Oh  Antics  and  Buffoons  ! 

Ye  never  danced  a  caper  so  ran-tan-dish ; 
He  jumped,  thumped — tore — swore,  more  than  ten  dragoons 
At  all  nights,  noons,  moons,  spoons,  and  pantaloons ! 


LOVE    AND    LrXACT.  25 

But  soon  ashamed,  or  weaiy.  of  such  dancing, 
Without  a  Collinot's  or  Woippeil's  band, 

His  rampint  arms  and  logs  left  oft"  their  prancing, 
And  doAvn  he  sat  again,  with  pen  in  hand, 
Xot  fiddle-headed,  or  King's  pattern  grand. 

But  one  of  Bramalrs  patent  Caligraphics ; 

And  many  a  sheet  it  spoiled  before  he  planned 

A  likelj  letter.     Used  to  pure  seraphics. 

Philippics  sounded  strangely  after  Sapphics. 

Long  while  he  rocked  like  Yankee  in  his  chair, 

Starino;  as  he  would  stare  the  wainscot  through, 
And  then  he  thrust  his  fing;ers  in  his  hair, 

And  set  his  crest  up  like  a  cockatoo ; 

And  trampled  with  his  hoofs,  a  more  Yahoo : 
At  last,  with  many  a  tragic  frown  and  start, 

He  penned  a  billet,  very  far  from  doux, 
'T  was  sour,  severe — but  think  of  a  man's  smart 
Writinsi;  with  lunar  caustic  on  his  heart ! 

GMie  letter  done  and  closed,  he  lit  his  taper. 
And  sealing,  as  it  were,  his  other  mocks, 

He  stamped  a  grave  device  upon  the  paper, 
No  Cupid  toying  with  his  Psyche's  locks. 
But  some  stern  head  of  the  old  Stoic  stocks — 

Then,  fiercely  striding  through  the  staring  streets, 
He  dropped  the  bitter  missive  in  a  box. 

Beneath  the  cakes,  and  tarts,  and  sugared  treats, 

In  Mrs.  Smelling' s  window-full  of  sweets. 

Soon  sped  the  letter — thanks  to  modern  plans, 
Oui-  English  mails  run  little  in  the  style 

Of  those  great  German  wild-beast  caravans, 

.E/^-Avagens — though  they  do  not  "go  like  ?/e," — 
3 


26  LOVE   AND   LUNACY. 

But  take  a  good  twelve  minutes  to  the  mile — 
On  Monday  morning,  just  at  ten  o'clock, 

As  Ellen  hummed  "The  Young  May  Moon"  the  while, 
Her  ear  was  startled  by  that  double  knock 
Which  thrills  the  nerves  like  an  electric  shock ! 

Her  right  hand  instantly  forgot  its  cunning, 

And  down  into  the  street  it  dropped,  or  flung, 
Right  on  the  hat  and  wig  of  ]Mr.  Gunning, 

The  jug  that  o'er  her  ten-week-stocks  had  hung ; 

Then  down  the  stairs  by  twos  and  threes  she  sprung, 
And  through  the  passage  like  a  burglar  darted. 

Alas  !  how  sanguine  are  the  fond  and  young — 
She  little  thought,  when  with  the  coin  she  parted, 
She  paid  a  sixpence  to  be  broken-hearted  ! 

Too  dear  at  any  price — had  she  but  paid 

Nothing  and  taken  discount,  it  was  dear  ; 
Yet,  worthless  as  it  was,  the  sweet-lipped  maid 

Oft  kissed  the  letter  in  her  brief  career 

Eetween  the  lower  and  the  upper  sphere,   . 
Vvhere,  seated  in  a  study  bistre-brown. 

She  tried  to  pierce  a  mystery  as  clear 
iVs  that  I  once  saw  puzzling  a  young  clown — 
•  •  Reading  Made  Easy, ' '  but  turned  upside  down. 

Yet  Ellen,  like  most  misses  in  the  land. 

Had  sipped  sky  blue,  through  certain  of  her  teens, 
At  one  of  those  establishments  which  stand 

In  highways,  byways,  squares,  and  village  greens ; 

'T  was  called  "  The  Grove,"— a  name  that  always  means 
Two  poplars  stand  like  sentries  at  the  gate — 

Each  window  had  its  close  Venetian  screens 
And  Holland  blind,  to  keep  in  a  cool  state 
The  twenty-four  Y'oung  Ladies  of  Miss  Bate. 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  27 

But  Avlien  the  screens  were  left  unclosed  by  chance, 

The  blinds  not  down,  us  if  Miss  B.  were  dead.^ 
Each  upper  windoAV  to  a  passing  glance 

Revealed  a  little  dimitj  white  bed ; 

Each  lower  one  a  cropped  or  curly  head  ; 
And  thrice  a  week,  for  soul's  and  health's  economies, 

Along  the  road  the  twenty-four  were  led, 
Like  coupled  hounds,  whipped  in  by  two  she-dominies 
With  faces  rather  graver  than  jNIelpomene's. 

And  thus  their  studies  they  pursued :— On  Sunday, 

Beef,  collects,  batter,  texts  from  Dr.  Price ; 
Mutton,  French,  pancakes,  grammar — of  a  Monday ; 

Tuesday — hard  dumplings,  globes,  Chapone's  Advice ; 

Wednesday — fancy-work,  rice-milk  (no  spice)  ; 
Thursday — pork,  dancing,  currant-bolsters,  reading; 

Friday — beef,  Mr.  Butler,  and  plain  rice ; 
Saturday — scraps,  short  lessons  and  short  feeding. 
Stocks,  back-boards,  hash,  stccl-collars,  and  good  breeding. 

From  this  repertory  of  female  learning 
Came  Ellen  once  a  quarter,  always  fatter ! 

To  gratify  the  eyes  of  parents  yearning. 
'T  Avas  evident  in  bolsters,  beef,  and  batter, 
Hard  dumplings,  and  rice-milk,  she  did  not  smatter, 

But  heartily,  as  Jenkins  says,  "  demollidge;" 
But  as  for  any  learning,  not  to  flatter, 

As  often  happens  when  girls  leave  their  college, 

She  had  done  nothing  but  groAV  out  of  knowledge. 

At  Long  Division  sums  she  had  no  chance, 

And  History  was  quite  as  bad  a  balk ; 
Her  French  it  was  too  small  for  Petty  France, 

And  Priscian  suffered  in  her  English  talk : 


28  LOVE  AND  LUNACY. 

Her  drawing  might  be  done  with  cheese  or  chalk ; 
As  for  the  globes — the  use  of  the  terrestrial 

She  knew  when  she  went  out  to  take  a  walk. 
Or  take  a  ride ;  but,  touching  the  celestial, 
Her  knowledge  hardly  soared  above  the  bestial. 

Nothing  she  learned  of  Juno,  Pallas,  Mars  ; 

Georgium,  for  what  she  knew,  might  stand  for  Burgo, 
Sidus,  for  Master :  then,  for  northern  stars, 

The  Bear  she  fancied  did  in  sable  fur  go, 

The  Bull  was  Farmer  Giles's  bull,  and,  ergo, 
The  Ram  the  same  that  butted  at  her  brother  ; 

As  for  the  Twins,  she  oulj  guessed  that  Virgo, 
From  coming  after  them,  must  be  their  mother ; 
The  Scales  weighed  soap,  tea,  figs,  like  any  other. 

As  ignorant  as  donkeys  in  Gallicia, 

She  thought  that  Saturn,  with  his  Belt,  was  but 
A  private,  may  be,  in  the  Kent  Militia ; 

That  Charles's  Wain  would  stick  in  a  deep  rut, 

That  Venus  was  a  real  West  End  slut — 
Oh,  gods  and  goddesses  of  Greek  Theogony ! 

That  Berenice's  Hair  would  curl  and  cut. 
That  Cassiopeia's  Chair  Avas  good  Mahogany, 
Nicely  French-polished — such  vras  her  cosmogony ! 

Judge,  then,  how  puzzled  by  the  scientifics 

Lorenzo's  letter  came  now  to  dispense; 
A  lizard,  crawling  over  hieroglyphics. 

Knows  cjuite  as  much  of  tlieir  Egyptian  sense ; 

A  sort  of  London  fog,  opaque  and  dense, 
Hung  over  verbs,  nouns,  genitives,  and  datives. 

In  vain  she  pored  and  pored,  with  eyes  intense, 
As  well  is  known  to  oyster-operatives, 
Mere  looking  at  the  shells  won't  open  natives. 


LOVE   AND    LUNACY. 

Yet  mixed  with  the  hard  words,  so  called,  she  found 

Some  easy  ones  that  gave  her  heart  the  staggers ; 
Words  giving  tongue  against  her,  like  a  hound 

At  picking  out  a  fault — words  speaking  daggers. 

The  very  letters  seemed,  in  hostile  swaggers. 
To  lash  their  tails,  but  not  as  horses  do. 

Nor  like  the  tails  of  spaniels,  gentle  waggers, 
But  like  a  lion's,  ere  he  tears  in  two 
A  black,  to  see  if  he  is  black  all  through. 

"With  open  mouth,  and  eyeballs  at  full  stretch, 
She  gazed  upon  the  paper  sad  and  sorry. 

No  sound — no  stir — quite  petrified,  poor  vrretch ! 
As  when  Apollo,  in  old  allegory, 
Down-stooping  like  a  falcon,  made  his  quarry 

Of  Niobe,  just  turned  to  Purbeck  stone ; 
In  fact,  since  Cupid  got  into  a  worry, 

Judge  if  a  suing  lover,  let  alone 

A  lawyer,  ever  wrote  in  such  a  tone. 

"  Ellen,  I  will  no  longer  call  you  mine, 
That  time  is  past,  and  ne'er  can  come  again ; 

However  other  lights  undimmed  may  shine. 
And  undimuiishing,  one  truth  is  plain. 
Which  I,  alas  !   have  learned — that  lo^-e  can  wane. 

The  dream  is  passed  away,  the  veil  is  rent, 
Your  heart  was  not  intended  for  my  reign ; 

A  sphere  so  full,  I  feel,  was  never  mfeant 

With  one  poor  man  in  it  to  be  content. 

"It  must,  no  doubt,  be  pleasant  beyond  measure, 
To  Avander  underneath  the  whispering  bough 

With  Dian,  a  perpetual  round  of  pleasure. 
Nay,  fear  not — I  absolve  of  every  vow-  - 


29 


30  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

Use — use  your  own  celestial  pleasure  now, 
Your  apogee  and  perigee  arrange. 

Herschel  might  aptly  stare  and  wonder  lio"W, 
To  me  that  constant  disk  has  nothing;  strange — 
A  counterfeit  is  sometino;  hard  to  chause. 

"  Oh  Ellen  !  I  once  little  thought  to  write 
Such  words  unto  you,  Avith  so  hai'd  a  pen ; 

Yet  outraged  love  will  change  its  nature  quite, 
And  turn  like  tiger  hunted  to  its  den — 
How  Falsehood  trips  in  her  deceits  on  men ! 

And  stands  abashed,  discovered,  and  forlorn ! 
Had  it  been  only  cusped — but  gibbous — then 

It  had  gone  down — but  Faith  drew  l^ack  in  scorn, 

And  would  not  swallow  it — without  a  horn  ! 

' '  I  am  in  occultation — that  is  plain : 

My  culmination's  past — that 's  (i[uite  as  clear. 
But  think  not  I  will  suffer  your  disdain 

To  hang  a  lunar  rainboAv  on  a  tear. 

Whate'er  my  pangs,  they  shall  be  buried  here; 
No  murmur — not  a  sigh — shall  thence  exhale  : 

Smile  on — and  for  your  own  peculiar  sphere 
Choose  some  eccentric  path — you  can  not  fail, 
And  pray  stick  on  a  most  portentous  tail ! 

"  Farewell !  I  hope  you  are  in  health  and  gay; 

For  me,  I  never  felt  so  well  and  merry — 
As  for  the  bran-new  idol  of  the  day, 

Monkey  or  man,  I  am  indifferent — very  ! 

Nor  even  will  ask  who  is  the  Happy  Jerry ; 
My  jealousy  is  dead,  or  gone  to  sleep, 

But  let  me  hint  that  you  will  want  a  wherry, 
Three  weeks   spring-tide,  and  not  a  chance  of  neap. 
Your  parlors  will  be  flooded  six  feet  deep  ! 


LOVE    AND    LUXACY.  31 

*'  Oh  Ellen  !  how  delicious  was  that  light 

"Wherein  our  plighted  shadows  used  to  blend, 
Meanwhile  the  melancholy  bird  of  night — 

No  more  of  that — the  lover  *s  at  an  end. 

Yet  if  I  may  advise  jou.  as  a  friend, 
Before  you  next  pen  sentiments  so  fond, 

Study  your  cycles — I  would  recommend 
Our  Airy — and  let  South  be  duly  conned, 
And  take  a  dip,  I  beg,  in  the  great  Pond. 

••  Farewell  acjain  !   it  is  farewell  for  ever  ! 

Before  your  lamp  of  mght  be  lit  up  thrice, 
I  shall  be  sailing,  haply,  for  Swan  River, 

Jamaica,  or  the  Indian  land  of  rice, 

Or  Bootliia  Felix — happy  clime  of  ice ! 
For  Trebizond,  or  distant  Scanderoon, 

Ceylon,  or  Java  redolent  of  spice, 
Or  settling,  neighbor  of  the  Cape  baboon,        -   . 
Or  roamin<T  o"er — The  jvlountaiiis  of  the  Moon  ! 

o 

'"^Vhat  matters  where?  my  world  no  longer  owns 

That  dear  meridian  spot  from  which  I  dated 
Degrees  of  distance,  hemispheres,  and  zones, 

A  j:1o^)0  all  blank  and  liarren  and  belated. 

What  matters  where  my  future  life  be  fated  ? 
"With  Lapland  hordes,  or  Koords  or  Afi-ic  peasant, 

A  squatter  in  the  western  woods  located. 
What  matters  where  ?     My  bias,  at  the  present, 
Leans  to  the  country  that  reveres  the  Crescent ! 

••  Farewell !  and  if  for  ever,  fare  thee  v-,eil ! 

As  wrote  another  of  my  fellow-martyrs  : 
I  ask  no  sexton  for  his  passing-bell. 

I  do  not  ask  vour  tear-drops  to  be  starters. 


32  LOVE  AXD  LUXACT. 

However  I  may  die,  transfixed  hj  Tartars, 
By  Cobras  poisoned,  by  Constrictors  strangled, 

By  shark  or  cayman  snapt  above  the  garters, 
By  royal  tiger  or  Cape  lion  mangled, 
Or  starved  to  death  in  the  wild  woods  entangled, 

"  Or  tortured  slowly  at  an  Indian  stake, 
Or  smothered  in  the  sandy  hot  simoon, 

Or  crushed  in  Chili  by  earth's  awful  quake, 
Or  baked  in  lava,  a  Vesuvian  tomb. 
Or  dirged  by  syrens  and  the  billows'  boom. 

Or  stiffened  to  a  stock  mid  Alpine  snows, 

Or  stricken  by  the  plague  with  sudden  doom. 

Or  sucked  by  A^ampyres  to  a  last  repose. 

Or  self-destroyed,  impatient  of  my  woes. 

"■  Still  fare  you  well,  however  I  may  fare, 
A  fare  perchance  to  the  Lethean  shore, 

Caught  up  by  rushing  whirlwinds  in  the  air, 
Or  dashed  down  cataracts  with  dreadful  roar : 
Nay,  this  warm  heart,  once  yours  unto  the  core, 

This  hand  you  should  have  claimed  in  church  or  minster. 
Some  cannibal  may  gnaw" — she  read  no  more — 

Prone  on  the  carpet  fell  the  senseless  spinster, 

Losing  herself,  as  'twere,  in  Kidderminster  ! 

Of  course  of  such  a  fall  the  shock  was  great. 

In  rushed  the  father,  panting  from  the  shop, 
In  rushed  the  mother,  without  cap  or  tete. 

Pursued  by  Betty  Housemaid  with  her  mop ; 

The  cook  to  change  her  apron  did  not  stop. 
The  charwoman  next  scrambled  up  the  stair — 

All  help  to  lift,  to  haul,  to  seat,  to  prop. 
And  then  they  stand  and  smother  round  the  chair, 
Exclaimuig  in  a  chorus,  "  Give  her  air  !" 


LOVE    AXD    LUNACY.  33 

One  sears  her  nostrils  Avitli  a  burning  feather, 

Another  rams  a  phial  up  her  nose ; 
A  third  crooks  all  her  finger-joints  together, 

A  fourth  rips  up  her  laces  and  her  bows, 

While  all  by  turns  keep  trampling  on  her  toes, 
And,  -when  she  gasps  for  breath,  they  pour  in  plump, 

A  sudden  drench  that  down  her  thorax  goes. 
As  if  in  fetching  her — some  wits  so  jump — 
She  must  be  fetched  with  water  like  a  pump  ! 

No  wonder  that  thus  drenched,  and  wrenched,  and  galled, 

As  soon  as  possible,  from  syncope's  fetter 
Her  senses  had  the  sense  to  be  recalled, 

"  I  'm  better — that  will  do — indeed  I  'm  better," 

She  cried  to  each  importunate  besetter ; 
Meanwhile  escaping  from  the  stir  and  smother. 

The  prudent  parent  seized  the  lover's  letter, 
(Daughters  should  have  no  secrets  with  a  Mother,) 
And  read  it  through  from  one  end  to  the  other. 

From  first  to  last,  she  never  skipped  a  word — 

For  young  Lorenzo  of  all  youths  was  one 
So  wise,  so  good,  so  moral  she  averred, 

So  clever,  quite  above  the  common  run — 

She  made  him  sit  by  her,  and  called  him  son. 
No  matrimonial  suit,  e'en  Duke's  or  Earl's, 

So  flattered  her  maternal  feelings — none  ! 
For  mothers  always  think  young  men  are  pearls 
Who  come  and  throw  themselves  before  their  girl8. 

And  now,  at  warning  signal  from  her  finger. 

The  servants  most  reluctantly  Avithdrew, 
But  listening  on  the  stairs  contrived  to  linger ; 

For  Ellen,  gazing  round  with  eyes  of  blue, 

2"*  _^., ........ 


i  LOVE   AND    LUNACY. 

At  last  the  features  of  her  parent  knew, 
And,  summoning  her  breath  and  vocal  powers, 

"  Oh,  mother  !"  she  exclaimed — "  Oh,  is  it  true — 
Our  dear  Lorenzo" — the  dear  name  drew  showers — 
"  Ours,^^  cried  the  mother,  "  pray  don't  call  him  ours 

"I  never  liked  him,  never,  in  my  days  !" 

["Oh  yes — you  did" — said  Ellen  with  a  sob,] 

"  There  always  tvas  a  something  in  his  ways — 
["So  sweet — so  kind,"  said  Ellen,  with  a  throb,] 
"  His  very  face  was  what  I  call  a  snob. 

And,  spite  of  Yv^est  End  coats  and  pantaloons, 
He  had  a  sort  of  air  of  the  swell  mob  ; 

I  'm  sure  when  he  has  come  of  afternoons 

To  tea,  I  've  often  thought — I  '11  watch  my  spoons  I" 

"The  spoons  !"  cried  Ellen,  almost  with  a  scream, 
"  Oh  cruel — false  as  cruel — and  unjust ! 

He  that  once  stood  so  high  in  your  esteem  !" 
"He  !"  cried  the  dame,  grimacing  her  disgust, 
"  I  like  him  ? — yes — as  any  body  must 

An  infidel  that  scoffs  at  God  and  Devil : 
Didn't  he  bring  you  Bonaparty's  bust? 

Lord  !  when  he  calls  I  hardly  can  be  civil — 

My  favorite  was  always  Mr.  Neville. 

"Lorenzo? — I  should  like,  of  earthly  thmgs, 

To  see  him  hanging  forty  cubits  high  ; 
Does  n't  he  write  like  Captain  Kocks  and  Swings  ? 

Nay,  in  this  very  letter  bid  you  try 

To  make  yourself  particular,  and  tie 
A  tail  on — a  prodigious  tail  ! — Oh,  daughter  ! 

And  don't  he  a,sk  you  down  his  area — fie  ! 
And  recommend  to  cut  your  being  shorter,  ^ 

.With  brick-bats  round  your  neck  in  ponds  of  water?" 


LOVE    AND    LUNACY.  35 

Alas  !  to  think  how  readers  thus  may  vary 

A  %yriter"s  sense  ! — What  mortal  would  have  thought 
Lorenzo's  hints  about  Professor  Airy 

And  Pond  to  such  a  likeness  could  be  brought ! 

Who  would  have  dreamed  the  simple  way  he  taught 
To  make  a  comet  of  poor  Ellen's  moon, 

Could  furnish  forth  an  image  so  distraught, 
As  Ellen,  walking  Regent  Street  at  noon, 
Tailed — like  a  flit  Cape  sheep,  or  a  raccoon  ! 

And  yet,  whate'er  absurdity  the  brains 

May  hatch,  it  ne'er  wants  wet-nurses  to  suckle  it ; 
Or  dry  ones,  like  a  hen,  to  take  the  pains 

To  lead  the  nudity  abroad,  and  chuckle  it ; 

No  whim  so  stupid  but  some  fool  will  buckle  it 
To  jingle  bell-like  on  his  empty  head, 

No  mentiil  mud — but  some  will  knead  and  knuckle  it. 
And  fancy  they  are  making  fancy-bread ; — 
No  ass  has  written,  but  some  ass  has  read. 

No  dolts  could  lead  if  others  did  not  follow  'em. 

No  Hahnemann  could  give  decillionth  di'ops 
If  any  man  could  not  be  got  to  swallow  'em  ; 

But  folly  never  comes  to  such  full  stops. 

As  soon,  then,  as  the  Mother  made  such  swaps 
Of  all  Lorenzo's  meanings,  heads  and  tails, 

The  Father  seized  upon  her  malaprops — 
'•'■  My  girl  down  areas — of  a  night !     'Ods  nails  ! 
I  "11  stick  the  scoundrel  on  his  area-rails  ! 

''  I  will ! — as  sure  as  I  was  christened  John  ! 

A  girl — well  born — and  bred — and  schooled  at  Ditton — 
Accomplished — handsome — with  a  tail  stuck  on  ! 

And  chucked — Zounds  ! — chucked  in  horseponds  like  a 
kitten ; 


36  LOVE    AND    LUNACY. 

I  wish  I  had  been  by  when  that  was  written !" — 
And  doubling  to  a  fist  each  ample  hand, 

The  empty  air  he  boxed  with,  u  la  Britton, 
As  if  in  training  for  a  fight,  long  planned, 
With  Nobody — for  love — at  No  Man's  Land ! 

"  I  '11  pond — I  '11  tail  him  !'     In  a  voice  of  thunder 

He  recommenced  his  fury  and  his  fuss, 
■Loud,  open-mouthed,  and  wedded  to  his  blunder, 

Like  one  of  those  great  guns  that  end  in  buss. 

''  I  '11  teach  him  to  write  ponds  and  tails  to  us  !" 
But  while  so  menacing  this-that-and-t"others, 

His  wife  broke  in  with  certain  truths,  as  thus  : 
"  Men  are  not  women — fathers  can't  be  mothers — 
Females  are  females" — and  a  few  such  othera. 

So  saying,  Avith  rough  nudges,  willy-nilly, 
She  hustled  him  outside  the  chamber-door, 

Looking,  it  must  be  owned,  a  little  silly ; 
And  then  she  did  as  the  Carinthian  boor 
Serves  (Goldsmith  says)  the  traveller  that 's  poor : 

Id  est,  she  shut  him  in  the  outer  space, 
With  just  as  much  apology — no  more — 

As  Boreas  would  present  in  such  a  case, 

For  slamming  the  street  door  right  in  your  face. 

And  now  the  secrets  of  the  sex  thus  kept. 

What  passed  in  that  important  tete-u-tete 
'Twixt  dam  and  daughter,  nobody  except 

Paul  Pry,  or  his  Twin  Brother,  could  narrate — 

So  turn  we  to  Lorenzo,  left  of  late 
In  front  of  Mrs.  Snelling's  sugared  snacks, 

In  such  a  very  waspish  stinging  state — 
But  now  at  the  Old  Dragon,  stretched  on  racks, 
Fretting,  and  biting  down  his  nails  to  tacks : 


LOVE   AND    LUNACY.  37 

Because  that  new  fast  four-inside — the  Comet, 

Instead  of  keeping  its  appointed  time, 
But  deviated  some  feAv  minutes  fi'om  it, 

A  thing  with  all  astronomers  a  crime, 

And  he  had  studied  in  that  lore  sublime ; 
Nor  did  his  heat  get  any  less  or  shorter 

For  pouring  upon  passion's  unslacked  lime 
A  well-grown  glass  of  Cogniac  and  water, 
Mixed  stiff  as  starch  bj  the  Old  Dragon's  daughter.  ' 

At  length,  ••  Fair  Ellen"  sounding  with  a  flom-ish, 
The  Comet  came  all  bright,  bran  new,  and  smart : 

Meanwhile  the  melody  conspired  to  nourish 
The  hasty  spirit  in  Lorenzo's  heart. 
And  soon  upon  the  roof  he  "topped  his  part,"' 

"Wtich  never  had  a  more  impatient  man  on, 
"Wishing  devoutly  that  the  steeds  would  start 

Like  lightning  greased — or,  as  at  Ballyshannon 

Sublimed,  "  greased  lightning  shot  out  of  a  cannon  !" 

For,  ever  since  the  letter  left  his  hand. 
His  mind  had  been  in  vascillating  motion, 

Dodge-dodging  like  a  flustered  crab  on  land. 
That  can  not  ask  its  way,  and  has  no  notion 
If  riofht  or  left  leads  to  the  German  Ocean — 

Hatred  and  Love  by  tui-ns  enjoyed  monopolies, 
Till,  like  a  Doctor  following  his  own  potion, 

Before  a  learned  pig  could  spell  Acropolis, 

He  went  and  booked  himself  for  oiu'  metropohs. 

'•  Oh,  for  a  horse."'  or  rather  four — ••  with  wings  !" 
For  so  he  put  his  wish  into  the  plural — 

Xo  relish  he  retained  for  country  thiags, 
He  could  not  join  felicity  with  iniral, 


38  LOVE   AND    LUXACY. 

His  thoughts  were  all  -^ith  London  and  the  mural. 
Where  architects — not  paupers — heap  and  j^ile  stones : 

Or  -^ith  the  horses'  muscles,  called  the  crural, 
How  fast  they  could  macadamize  the  milestones 
^\Tiich  passed  as  tediously  as  gall  or  bile  stones. 

Blind  to  the  picturest{ue,  he  ne'er  perceived 

In  Natui'e  one  artistical  fine  stroke ; 
For  instance,  how  that  purple  hill  reheved 

The  beggar-woman  in  the  gipsy-poke, 

And  how  the  red  cow  carried  off  her  cloak ; 
Or  how  the  aged  horse,  so  gaunt  and  grey. 

Threw  off  a  noble  mass  of  beech  and  oak  ! 
Or,  how  the  tinker's  ass,  beside  the  way, 
Came  boldly  out  from  a  white  cloud — to  bray  ! 

Such  things  have  no  delight  for  worried  men, 
That  travel  full  of  care  and  anxious  smart : 

Coachmen  and  horses  are  your  artists  then ; 

Just  try  a  team  of  draughtsmen  with  the  Dart, 
Take  Shee,  for  instance,  Etty,  Jones,  and  Hart, 

Let  every  neck  be  put  into  its  noose, 

Then  tip  "em  on  the  flank  to  make  'em  start, 

And  see  how  they  will  draw  ! — Four  screws  let  loose 

Would  make  a  difference- — or  I  'm  a  goose  ! 

Nor  cared  he  more  about  the  promised  crops, 
If  oats  were  looking  up,  or  wheat  was  laid, 

For  flies  in  turnips,  or  a  blight  in  hops, 
Or  how  the  barley  prosj^ered  or  decayed : 
In  short,  no  items  of  the  firming  trade. 

Peas,  beans,  tares,  "taters,  could  his  mind  beguile ; 
Kor  did  he  answer  to  the  servant  maid. 

That  always  asked  at  every  other  mile, 

"Where  do  we  change,  sir?"  with  her  sweetest  smile. 


LOVE   AND    LUNACY. 

Nor  more  lie  listened  to  the  Politician, 

Wlio  lectured  on  his  left,  a  formal  prig. 
Of  Belgium's,  Greece's,  Turkey's  sad  condition, 

Not  worth  a  cheese,  an  olive,  or  a  fig ; 

Nor  yet  unto  the  critic,  fierce  and  big, 
Who,  holding  forth,  all  lonelv,  in  his  glory, 

Called  one  a  sad  bad  Poet — and  a  Whig, 
And  one,  a  first-rate  proser — and  a  Tory ; 
So  critics  judge,  noAv,  of  a  song  or  story. 

Nay,  when  the  coachman  spoke  about  the  "Leger, 
Of  Popsy,  Mopsy,  Bergamotte,  and  Civet, 

Of  breeder,  trainer,  owner,  backer,  hedger, 
And  nags  as  right,  or  righter  than  a  trivet. 
The  theme  his  cracked  attention  could  not  rivet ; 

Though  leaning  forward  to  the  man  of  whips, 
He  seemed  to  give  an  ear — ^Ijut  did  not  give  it, 

For  Ellen's  moon  (that  saddest  of  her  slips) 

Would  not  be  hidden  by  a  "new  Eclipse." 

If  any  thought  e'er  flitted  in  Ins  head 

Belonging  to  the  sphere  of  Bland  and  Crocky, 

It  was  to  wish  the  team  all  thorough-bred, 
And  every  buckle  on  their  backs  a  jockey : 
V>"hen  spinning  down  a  steep  descent,  or  rocky, 

He  never  watched  the  wheel,  and  longed  to  lock  it, 
He  liked  the  bolters  that  set  oif  so  cocky 

Nor  did  it  shake  a  single  nerve  or  shock  it. 

Because  the  Comet  raced  against  the  Rocket. 

Thanks  to  which  rivalry,  at  last  tlie  journey 
Finished  an  hour  and  a  quarter  under  time, 

Without  a  case  for  surgeon  or  attorney, 
Just  as  St.  James's  rang  its  seventh  chime, 


39 


40  LOVE   AND    LUNACY. 

And  now,  descending  from  his  seat  sublime, 
Behold  Lorenzo,  weariest  of  wights, 
In  that  great  core  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  lime, 
Called  England's  Heart — but  which,  as  seen  of  nights, 
Has  rather  more  the  appearance  of  its  lights. 

Awaj  he  scudded — elbowing,  perforce, 

Through  cads,  and  lads,  and  many  a  Hebrew  worrier, 
With  fruit,  knives,  pencils — all  dirt  cheap,  of  course. 

Coachmen,  and  hawkers,  of  the  Globe  and  "Currier;" 

Away  !  the  cook  maid  is  not  such  a  skurrier, 
When,  fit  to  split  her  gingham  as  she  goes. 

With  six  just  striking  on  the  clock  to  hurry  her, 
She  strides  along  with  one  of  her  three  beaux, 
To  get  well  placed  at  "  Ashley's"' — now  Ducrow's. 

"  I  wonder  if  her  moon  is  full  to-night !" 

He  muttered,  jealous  as  a  Spanish  Don, 
When,  lo  !  to  aggravate  that  inward  spite, 

In  glancing  at  a  board  he  spied  thereon 

A  play-bill  for  dramatic  folks  to  con. 
In  letters  such  as  those  may  read,  who  run, 

"  'KING  JOHN'— oh  yes— I  recollect  King  John  ! 
'  My  Lord,  they  say  five  moons'— ^re  moons  !  well  done 
I  wonder  Ellen  was  content  with  one ! 

"  Five  moons — all  full  !  and  all  at  once  in  heaven ! 

She  should  have  lived  in  that  prolific  reign !" 
Here  he  arrived  in  front  of  number  seven. 

The  abode  of  all  his  joy  and  all  his  pain ; 

A  sudden  tremor  shot  through  every  vein. 
He  wished  he  'd  come  up  by  the  heavy  wagon, 

And  felt  an  impulse  to  turn  back  again. 
Oh,  that  he  ne'er  liad  quitted  the  Old  Dragon  ! 
Then  came  a  sort  of  longing  for  a  flagon. 


LOVE   AND    LUNACY.  41 

Ilis  tongue  and  palate  seemed  so  parched  with  drouth — 
The  very  knocker  filled  his  soul  with  dread, 

Jis  if  it  had  a  living  lion's  mouth, 

With  teeth  so  terrible,  and  tongue  so  red, 
In  which  he  had  engaged  to  put  his  head. 

The  bell-pull  turned  his  courage  into  vapor, 
As  though  'twould  cause  a  shower-bath  to  shed 

Its  thousand  shocks,  to  make  him  sigh  and  caper — 

He  looked  askance,  and  did  not  like  the  scraper. 

"  What  business  have  I  here  ?  (he  thought)  a  dunce 
A  hopeless  passion  thus  to  fan  and  foster, 

Instead  of  putting  out  its  wick  at  once  ; 

She  "s  gone — it  "s  very  evident  I '  ve  lost  her — 
And  to  the  wanton  wind  I  should  have  tossed  her — 

Pish  !  I  will  leave  her  with  her  moon,  at  ease. 
To  toast  and  eat  it,  like  a  single  Gloster, 

Or  cram  some  fool  with  it,  as  good  green  cheese, 

Or  make  a  honey-moon,  if  so  she  please. 

^' Yes — here  I  leave  her,''  and  as  thus  he  spoke, 

He  plied  the  knocker  with  such  needless  force, 
It  almost  split  the  pannel  of  sound  oak ; 

And  then  he  went  as  wildly  through  a  course 

Of  ringing,  till  he  made  abrupt  divorce 
Between  the  bell  and  its  dumbfounded  handle ; 

While  up  ran  Betty,  out  of  breath  and  hoarse, 
And  thrust  into  his  face  her  blown-out  candle. 
To  recognize  the  author  of  such  scandal. 

Who,  presto  !  cloak,  and  carpet-bag  to  boot. 

Went  stumbling,  rumbling,  up  the  dark  one  pair, 

With  other  noise  than  his  whose  "  very  foot 
Had  music  in 't  as  he  came  up  the  stair :" 


42  LOYE    AND    LUNACY. 

And  then  with  no  more  manners  than  a  bear, 
His  hat  upon  his  head,  no  matter  how, 

No  modest  tap  his  presence  to  declare, 
He  bolted  in  a  room,  without  a  bow. 
And  there  sat  Ellen,  with  a  marble  brow  ! 

Like  fond  Medora,  watching  at  her  window. 

Yet  not  of  any  Corsair  bark  in  search — 
The  jutting  lodging-house  of  Mrs.  Lindo, 

'•The  Cheapest  House  in  Town"'  of  Todd  and  Sturch, 

The  private  house  of  Reverend  Doctor  Bu'ch, 
The  public-house,  closed  nightly  at  eleven, 

And  then  that  house  of  prayer,  the  parish  church, 
Some  roofs  and  chimneys,  and  a  glimpse  of  heaven, 
Made  up  the  whole  look-out  of  Number  Seven. 

Yet  something  in  the  prospect  so  absorbed  her, 

She  seemed  quite  drowned  and  dozing  in  a  dream ; 

As  if  her  own  beloved  full  moon  still  orbed  her, 
Lulling  her  fancy  in  some  lunar  scheme. 
With  lost  Lorenzo,  may  be,  for  its  theme — 

Yet  when  Lorenzo  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 
She  started  up  with  an  abortive  scream, 

As  if  some  midnight  ghost,  from  regions  colder. 

Had  come  within  his  bony  arms  to  fold  her. 

' '  Lorenzo ! "— "  Ellen !  "—then  came  '  •  Sir ! "  and  '  •  Madam ! " 
They  tried  to  speak,  but  hammered  at  each  word. 

As  if  it  were  a  flint  for  great  Macx\.dam ; 
Such  broken  English  never  else  was  heard, 
For  like  an  aspen  leaf  each  nerve  was  stirred, 

A  chilly  tremor  thrilled  them  through  and  through. 
Their  efforts  to  be  stiff  were  quite  absurd. 

They  shook  like  jellies  made  Avithout  a  due 

And  proper  share  of  common  joiner's  glue. 


LOVE   AND    LUNACY. 


43 


"  Ellen  !  I  'm  come — to  bid  jou — fare — farewell" 
They  thus  began  to  fight  their  verbal  duel ; 

'•'  Since  some  more  hap — hap — happy  man  must  dwell — " 
"  Alas — Loren — Lorenzo  ! — cru — cru — cruel !" 
For  so  they  split  then-  words  like  grits  for  gruel. 

At  last  the  Lover,  as  he  long  had  planned. 
Drew  out  that  once  inestimable  jewel, 

Her  portrait,  which  was  erst  so  fondly  scanned, 

And  thrust  poor  Ellen's  face  into  her  hand. 

"  There — take  it.  Madam — take  it  back  I  crave, 
The  face  of  one — but  I  must  now  forget  her, 

Bestow  it  on  whatever  hapless  slave 

Your  art  has  last  enticed  into  your  fetter — 
And  there  are  your  epistles — there  !  each  letter  ! 

I  wish  no  record  of  your  vow's  infractions. 

Send  them  to  South — or  Children — you  had  better — 

They  will  be  novelties — rare  benefactions 

To  shine  in  Philosophical  Transactions  ! 

"  Take  them — pray  take  them — I  resign  them  quite  ! 

And  there  's  the  glove  you  gave  me  leave  to  steal — 
And  there 's  the  handkerchief,  so  pure  and  white 

Once  sanctified  by  lears,  when  Miss  O'Neill — 

But  no — you  did  not — cannot — do  not  feel 
A  Juliet's  fiiith,  that  time  could  only  harden ! 

Fool  that  I  was,  in  my  mistaken  zeal ! 
I  should  have  led  you — by  your  leave  and  pardon — 
To  Bartley's  Orrery,  not  Covent  Garden  ! 

'•  And  here 's  the  birth-day  ring — nor  man  nor  devil 
Should  once  have  torn  it  from  my  living  hand, 

Perchance  't  will  look  as  well  on  Mr.  Neville ; 
And  that — and  that  is  all — and  now  I  stand 


44  LOVE  AND   LUNACT. 

Absolved  of  each  dissevered  tie  and  band — 
And  so  farewell,  till  Time's  eternal  sickle 

Shall  reap  our  lives;  in  this,  or  foreign  land 
Some  other  may  be  found  for  truth  to  stickle 
Almost  as  fair — and  not  so  false  and  fickle !" 

And  there  he  ceased :  as  trulj  it  was  time. 
For  of  the  various  themes  that  left  his  mouth, 

One  half  surpassed  her  intellectual  climb  : 

She  knew  no  more  than  the  old  Hill  of  Howth 
About  that  "  Children  of  a  larger  growth," 

Who  notes  proceedings  of  the  F.  R.  S/s; 

Kit  North,  was  just  as  strange  to  her  as  South, 

Except  the  South  the  weathercock  expresses, 

Naj,  Bartlej's  Orrery  defied  her  guesses. 

Howbeit  some  notion  of  his  jealous  drift 
She  gathered  from  the  simple  outward  fact 

That  her  own  lap  contained  each  slighted  gift ; 
Though  quite  unconsious  of  his  cause  to  act 
So  like  Othello,  with  his  face  unblacked ; 

"  Alas  !"  she  sobbed,  "  your  cruel  course  I  see 
These  faded  charms  no  Ioniser  can  attract : 

Your  fancy  palls,  and  you  would  wander  free, 

And  lay  your  own  apostacy  on  me  ! 

"  /,  false  ! — unjust  Lorenzo  ! — and  to  you  ! 

Oh,  all  ye  holy  gospels  that  incline 
The  soul  to  truth,  bear  witness  I  am  true ! 

By  all  that  lives,  of  earthly  or  divine — 

So  long  as  this  poor  throbbing  heart  is  mine — 
/  filse ! — the  world  shall  change  its  course  as  soon  ? 

True  as  the  streamlet  to  the  stars  that  shine — 
True  as  the  dial  to  the  sun  at  noon, 
True  as  the  tide  to  '  yonder  blessed  moon'  !" 


LOVE   AND    LUNACY.  45 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  pointed  through  the  window, 
Somewhere  above  the  houses'  distant  tops, 

Betwixt  the  chimney-pots  of  Mrs.  Lindo. 
And  Todd  and  Sturch's  cheapest  of  all  shops 
For  ribbons,  laces,  muslins,  silks,  and  fops ; — 

Meanwhile,  as  she  upraised  her  face  so  Grecian, 
And  ejes  sufiused  with  scintillating  drops, 

Lorenzo  looked,  too,  o'er  the  blinds  Venetian, 

To  see  the  sphere  so  troubled  with  repletion. 

'■  The  Moon  !  "  he  cried,  and  an  electric  spasm 
Seemed  all  at  once  his  features  to  distort. 

And  fixed  his  mouth,  a  dumb  and  gaping  chasm — 
His  faculties  benumbed  and  all  amort — 
At  last  his  voice  came,  of  most  shrilly  sort, 

Just  like  a  sea-gull's  wheeling  round  a  rock — 

'•  Speak  ! — Ellen  ! — is  jour  sight  indeed  so  short ! 

The  Moon  ! — Bmte  !  savage  that  I  am,  and  block  ! 

The  Moon !   (0,  ye  Romantics,  what  a  shock  !) 

Why  that  "s  the  new  Illuminated  Clock  !" 


BAILEY    BALLADS. 


To  anticipate  mistake,  the  above  title  refers  not  to 
Thomas  Haynes — or  F.  V>".  N. — or  even  to  any  Publishers 
— but  the  original  Old  Bailey.  It  belongs  to  a  set  of  Songs 
composed  during  the  courtly  leisure  of  what  is  technically 
called  a  Juryman  in  Waiting — that  is,  one  of  a  coiys  de 
reserve,  held  in  readiness  to  fill  up  the  gaps  which  extra- 
ordinary mental  exertion — or  sedentary  habits — or  starva- 
tion, may  make  in  the  Council  of  Twelve.  This  wrong  box 
it  was  once  my  fortune  to  get  into.  On  the  5th  of  Novem- 
ber, at  the  6th  hour,  leaving  my  bed  and  the  luxurious 
perusal  of  Taylor  on  Early  Rising — I  walked  from  a  yel- 
low fog  into  a  black  one.  in  my  unwilling  way  to  the  New 
Court,  which  sweet  herbs  even  could  not  sweeten,  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  making  criminals  uncomfortable.  A  neigh- 
bor, a  retu-cd  sea  Captain  with  a  wooden  leg,  now  literally 
a  jury-mast,  limped  with  me  from  Highbury  Terrace  on  the 
same  hanging  errand — a  personified  Halter.  Our  legal  drill 
Corporal  was  Serjeant  Arabin,  and  when  our  muster-roll 
without  butter  was  over,  before  breakfast,  the  uninitiated 
can  form  no  idea  of  the  ludicrousness  of  the  excuses  of  the 
Y^-Quld-be  Non-jurors — aggravated  by  the  solemnity  of  a  pre- 
vious oath,  the  delivery  from  a  witness-box  like  a  pulpit, 

3 


60  BAILEY   BALLADS. 

and  the  professional  gravity  of  the  Court.  One  weakly  old 
gentleman  had  been  ordered  by  his  physician  to  eat  little, 
but  often,  and  apprehended  even  fatal  consequences  from 
being  locked  up  with  an  obstinate  eleven ;  another  conscien- 
tious demurrer  desired  time  to  make  himself  master  of  his 
duties,  by  consulting  Jonathan  Wild,  Vidocq,  Hardy  Vaux, 
and  Lazarillo  de  Tormes.  But  the  number  of  deaf  men 
who  objected  the  hardness  of  their  hearing  criminal  cases 
was  beyond  belief.  The  Publishers  of  "  Curtis  on  the  Ear" 
and  "  Wright  on  the  Ear" — (two  popular  surgical  works, 
though  rather  suggestive  of  Pugilism) — ought  to  have  sten- 
torian agents  in  that  Court.  Defective  on  one  side  myself, 
I  was  literally  ashamed  to  strike  up  singly  in  such  a  chorus 
of  muffled  double  drums,  and  tacitly  suffered  my  ears  to  be 
boxed  with  a  common  Jury.  I  heard,  on  the  right  hand,  a 
Judge's  charge — an  arraignment  and  evidence  to  match,  with 
great  dexterity,  but  failing  to  catch  the  defence  from  the 
left  hand,  refused  naturally  to  concur  in  any  sinister  verdict. 
The  learned  Serjeant,  I  presume,  as  I  Avas  only  half  deaf, 
only  half  discharged  me — committing  me  to  the  relay -box, 
as  a  juror  in  Waiting — and  from  which  I  was  relieved  only 
by  his  successor,  Sir  Thomas  Denman,  and  to  justify  my 
dullness,  I  made  even  his  stupendous  voice  to  repeat  my 
dismissal  twice  over  ! 

It  was  during  this  compelled  attendance  that  the  project 
struck  me  of  a  Series  of  Lays  of  Larceny,  combining  Sin 
and  Sentiment  in  that  melo-dramatic  mixture  which  is  so 
congenial  to  the  cholera  morbid  sensibility  of  the  present 
age  and  stage.  The  following  are  merely  specimens,  but  a 
hint  from  the  Powers  that  be — in  the  Strand — will  promptly 
produce  a  handsome  volume  of  the  remainder,  with  a  grate- 
ful dedication  to  the  learned  Serjeant. 


BAILEY   BALLADS- 
LINES    TO  MARY. 

(at   XO.    1,    NEWGATE,  FAVORED   BY   SIR.   WOKTNEB.) 

0  Mary,  I  believed  you  true, 

And  I  was  blest  in  so  believing ; 
But  till  this  hour  I  never  knew — 

That  you  were  taken  up  for  thieving  ! 

Oh  !  when  I  snatched  a  tender  kiss, 
Or  some  such  trifle  when  I  courted, 

You  said,  indeed,  that  love  was  bliss. 
But  never  owned  you  were  transported ! 

But  then  to  gaze  on  that  fair  face — 
It  would  have  been  an  unfair  feeling. 

To  dream  that  you  had  pilfered  lace — 

And  Flints  had  suffered  from  your  stealing  ! 

Or  when  my  suit  I  first  preferred. 
To  bring  your  coldness  to  repentance, 

Before  I  hammered  out  a  word, 

How  could  I  dream  you  "d  heard  a  sentence ! 

Or  when  with  all  the  warmth  of  youth 
I  strove  to  prove  my  love  no  fiction, 

How  could  I  guess  I  urged  a  truth 
On  one  already  past  conviction ! 

How  could  I  dream  that  ivory  part, 

Your  hand — where  I  have  looked  and  lingered, 
Altho'  it  stole  away  my  heart, 

Had  been  held  up  as  one  light-fingered ! 


51 


52  BAILEY   BALLADS. 

In  melting  verse  your  charms  I  drew, 

The  charms  in  which  my  muse  delighted — 

Alas  !  the  lay,  I  thought  was  new, 
Spoke  only  what  had  been  indicted ! 

Oh  !  when  that  form,  a  lovely  one, 

Hung  on  the  neck  its  arms  had  flown  to, 

I  little  thought  that  you  had  run 

A  chance  of  hanging  on  your  own  too. 

You  said  you  picked  me  from  the  world, 

My  vanity  it  now  must  shock  it — 
And  down  at  once  my  pride  is  hurled, 

You  've  picked  me — and  you  've  picked  a  pocket ! 

Oh  !  when  our  love  had  got  so  far. 

The  banns  were  read  by  Dr.  Daly, 
Who  asked  if  there  was  any  bm — 

Why  did  not  some  one  shout  "  Old  Bailey?" 

But  when  you  robed  your  flesh  and  bones 
In  that  pure  white  that  angel  garb  is, 

Who  could  have  thought  you,  Mary  Jones, 
Among  the  Joans  that  link  with  Darbies  ? 

And  when  the  parson  came  to  say, 

My  goods  were  yours,  if  I  had  got  any, 

And  you  should  honor  and  obey, 

Who  could  have  thought — "  0  Bay  of  Botany." 

But,  oh — the  worst  of  all  your  slips 

I  did  not  till  this  day  discover — 
That  down  in  Deptford's  prison-ships. 

Oh,  Mary  !  you  've  a  hulking  lover ! 


BAILEY    BALLADS. 


53 


No.  n. 

"Love,  with  a  witness!" 

He  has  shaved  off  his  Tvhiskers  and  blackened  his  brows, 

Wears  a  patch  and  a  wig  of  false  hair — 
But  it 's  him-Oh  it's  him  !- we  've  exchanged  lovers'  vows, 

When  I  lived  up  in  Cavendish  Square. 

He  had  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  the  same, 

And  his  voice  was  as  soft  as  a  flute — 
Like  a  Lord  or  a  IMarquis  he  looked,  when  he  came, 

To  make  love  in  his  master's  best  suit. 

If  I  lived  for  a  thousand  long  years  from  my  birth, 

I  shall  never  forget  what  he  told ; 
How  he  loved  me  beyond  the  rich  women  of  earth, 

With  their  jewels  and  silver  and  gold  ! 

^Mien  he  kissed  me  and  bade  me  adieu  with  a  sigh, 

By  the  light  of  the  sweetest  of  moons, 
Oh  how  little  I  dreamt  I  was  bidding  good-bye 

To  my  Missis's  tea-pot  and  spoons  ! 


No.  m. 

"  I  'd  be  a  Parody."— Bailey. 

We  met — 't  waa  in  a  mob — and  I  thought  he  had  done  me— 

I  felt I  could  not  feel— for  no  watch  was  upon  me ; 

He  ran— the  night  was  cold— and  his  pace  was  unaltered, 
I  too  longed  much  to  pelt— but  my  small-boned  legs  faltered, 
I  wore  my  bran  new  boots— au^l  unrivalled  their  brightness. 
They  fit  me  to  a  hair— how  I  hated  their  tightness ! 
I  called,  but  no  one  came,  and  my  stride  had  a  tether 
Oh  tkou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  leather ! 


54  BAILEY   BALLADS. 

And  once  again  we  met — and  an  old  pal  was  near  him, 
He  swore  a  something  low — ^but  't  was  no  use  to  fear  him ; 
I  seized  upon  his  arm,  he  was  mine  and  mine  only, 
And  stept — as  he  deserved — to  cells  wretched  and  lonely  : 
And  there  he  will  be  tried — but  I  shall  ne'er  receive  her. 
The  watch  that  went  too  sure  for  an  artful  deceiver; 
The  world  may  think  me  gay — heart  and  feet  ache  together, 
Oh  thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  leather. 


POEMS,    BY  A   POOR    GENTLEMAN 


There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug. 

The  Muse  found  Scroggins  stretched  beneath  a  rug. 

GoLDSiOTH. 

Poetry  and  poverty  begin  with  tlie  same  letter,  and,  in 
more  respects  tlian  one,  are  "as  like  each  other  as  two  P"s."' 
Nine  tailors  are  the  making  of  a  man.  but  not  so  the  nine 
Muses.  Theii'  votaries  are  notoriously  only  water-di-inkers, 
eating  mutton  cold,  and  dwelling  in  attics.  Look  at  the 
miserable  lives  and  deaths  recorded  of  the  poets.  '  ■  But- 
ler," says  Mr.  D" Israeli,  '•lived  in  a  cellar,  and  Goldsmith 
in  a  Deserted  Village.  Savage  ran  wild — Chatterton  was 
carried  on  St.  Augustine's  Back  like  a  young  gipsy;  and 
his  half-starved  Rowley  always  said  heigho,  when  he  heard 
of  gammon  and  spinach.  Gray's  days  were  ode-ious,  and 
Gay^s  gaiety  was  fabulous.  Falconer  was  shipwrecked. 
Homer  was  a  blind  beggar,  and  Pope  raised  a  subscription 
for  him,  and  went  snacks.  Crabbe  found  himself  in  the 
poor-house,  Spenser  could  n't  afford  a  great-coat,  and  Milton 
was  led  up  and  down  by  his  daughters,  to  save  the  expense 
of  a  dog." 

It  seems  all  but  impossible  to  be  a  poet,  in  easy  circum- 
stances. Pope  has  shown  how  verses  are  written  by  Ladies 
of  Quality — and  what  execrable  rhymes  Sir  Richard  Black- 
more  composed  in  his  chariot.  In  a  hay-cart  he  might  have 
sung  like  a  Bums. 

3* 


58  POEMS,    BY   A   POOR    GENTLEMAN. 

As  the  editors  of  magazines  and  annuals  (save  one)  -well 
know,  the  truly  poetical  contributions  which  can  be  inserted, 
are  not  those  which  come  post  free,  iu  rose-colored  tinted 
paper,  scented  with  musk,  and  sealed  with  fancy  wax.  The 
real  article  arrives  by  post  unpaid,  sealed  with  rosin,  or 
possibly  with  a  dab  of  pitch  or  cobbler's  wax,  bearing  the 
impression  of  a  halfpenny,  or  more  frequently  of  a  button — 
the  paper  is  dingy  and  scant — the  hand- writing  has  evident- 
ly come  to  the  author  by  nature — there  are  trips  in  the 
spelling,  and  Priscian  is  a  little  scratched  or  so — but  a  rill 
of  the  true  Castalian  runs  through  the  whole  composition, 
though  its  fountain-head  was  a  broken  tea-cup,  instead  of  a 
silver  standish.  A  few  years  ago  I  used  to  be  favored  with 
numerous  poems  for  insertion,  which  bore  the  signature  of 
Fitz-Norman ;  the  crest  on  the  seal  had  probably  descended 
from  the  Conquest,  and  the  packets  were  invariably  de- 
livered by  a  Patagonian  footman  m  green  and  gold.  The 
author  was  evidently  rich,  and  the  verses  were  as  palpably 
poor ;  they  were  declined,  with  the  usual  answer  to  corre- 
spondents who  do  not  answer,  and  the  communications  ceased 
— as  I  thought  forever,  but  I  was  deceived ;  a  few  days 
back  one  of  the  dirtiest  and  raggedest  of  street  urchins  de- 
livered a  soiled  whity  brown  packet,  closed  with  a  wafer, 
which  bore  the  impress  of  a  thimble.  The  paper  had  more 
the  odor  of  tobacco  than  of  rose  leaves,  and  the  writing  ap- 
peared to  have  been  perpetrated  with  a  skewer  dipped  in 
coffee-grounds ;  but  the  old  signature  of  Fitz-Norman  had 
the  honor  to  be  my  "  very  humble  servant"  at  the  foot  of 
the  letter.  It  was  too  certain  that  he  had  fallen  from  afflu- 
ence to  indigence,  but  the  adversity  which  had  wrought 
such  a  change  upon  the  writing  implements,  had.  as  usual, 
improved  his  poetry.  The  neat  crowquill  never  traced  on 
the  superfine  Bath  paper  any  thing  so  unaffected  as  the  f  j1- 
lowinw : — 


POEMS,    BY   A   POOR   GENTLEMAN. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  UNDEE  THE  FEAR  OF  BAILIFFS. 

Alas  !  of  all  the  noxious  things 

That  wait  upon  the  poor, 
Most  cruel  is  that  Felon-Fear 

That  haunts  the  '■  Debtor's  Door !" 

Saint  Sepulchre's  begins  to  toll, 
The  Sheriffs  seek  the  cell : — 

So  I  expect  their  officers, 
And  tremble  at  the  bell ! 

I  look  for  beer,  and  yet  I  quake 
With  fright  at  every  tap  ; 

And  dread  a  double-knock,  for  oh ! 
I've  not  a  single  rap! 


59 


SONNET 

WKITTEN  m  A  "WORKHOUSE. 

Oh,  blessed  ease  !  no  more  of  heaven  I  ask  : 
The  overseer  is  gone — that  vandal  elf — 
And  hemp,  unpicked,  may  go  and  hang  itself. 

While  I,  untasked,  except  with  Cowper"s  Task, 

In  blessed  literary  leisure  bask, 

And  lose  the  workhouse,  saving  in  the  works 
Of  Goldsmiths,  Johnsons,  Sheridans,  and  Burkes 

Eat  prose  and  drink  of  the  Castalian  flask : 

The  themes  of  Locke,  the  anecdotes  of  Spense, 
The  humorous  of  Gay,  the  Grave  of  Blair — 


60         POEMS,  BY  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN. 


Unlearned  toil,  unlettered  labors  hence  ! 

But,  hark  !  I  hear  the  master  on  the  stair 
And  Thomson's  Castle,  that  of  Indolence, 

Must  be  to  me  a  castle  in  the  air. 


SONNET.— A   SOMNAMBULIST. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  sphit  of  my  dream." — Btbok. 

Methought — for  Fancy  is  the  strangest  gadder 

"WTien  sleep  all  homely  mundane  ties  hath  riven — 
Methought  that  I  ascended  Jacob's  ladder, 

With  heartfelt  hope  of  getting  up  to  Heaven : 

Some  bell,  I  know  not  whence,  was  sounding  seven 
When  I  set  foot  upon  that  long  one-pair ; 

And  still  I  climbed  when  it  had  chimed  eleven, 
Nor  yet  of  landing-place  became  aware ; 
Step  after  step  in  endless  flight  seemed  there ; 

But  on,  with  steadfast  hope,  I  struggled  still, 
To  gain  that  blessed  haven  from  all  care, 

Where  tears  are  wiped,  and  hearts  forget  their  ill. 
When,  lo  !  I  wakened  on  a  sadder  stair — 

Tramp — tramp — tramp — tramp — upon  the  Brixton  Mill ! 


FUGITrVE  LINES  ON  PAWNING  ^lY  AVATCH. 

"  AuTUra  pot-a-bile :'' — Gold  hiles  the  pot. — Free  Translation. 

Farewell  then,  my  golden  repeater, 
We  *re  come  to  my  L^ncle's  old  shop ; 

And  hunger  won't  be  a  dumb-waiter, 
The  Cerberus  growls  for  a  sop. 


POEMS,    BY  A   POOR   GENTLEMAN. 

To  quit  thee,  mj  comrade  diurnal, 
i\Iy  feelings  will  certainly  scotch ; 

But  oh  !  there  *s  a  riot  internal, 

And  Famine  calls  out  for  the  Watch ! 

Oh  !  hunger  's  a  terrible  trial, 

I  really  must  have  a  relief — 
So  here  goes  the  plates  of  your  dial 

To  fetch  me  some  Williams's  beef ! 

As  famished  as  any  lost  seaman, 

I '  ve  fasted  for  many  a  dawn. 
And  now  must  play  chess  with  the  Demon, 

And  give  it  a  check  with  a  pawn. 

I've  fasted,  since  dining  at  Buncle's, 
Two  days  with  true  Perceval  zeal — 

And  now  must  make  up  at  my  Uncle's, 
By  getting  a  duplicate  meal. 

No  Peachum  it  is,  or  young  Lockit, 
That  rifles  my  fob  with  a  snatch ; 

Alas  !  I  must  pick  my  own  pocket, 
And  make  gravy-soup  of  my  watch  ! 

So  long  I  have  wandered  a  starver, 
I  'm  getting  as  keen  as  a  hawk ; 

Time's  long  hand  must  take  up  a  carver, 
His  short  hand  lay  hold  of  a  fork. 

Right  heavy  and  sad  the  event  is, 
But  oh  !  it  is  Poverty's  crime ; 

I  've  been  such  a  Brownrigg's  Apprentice, 
I  thus  must  be  '•  out  of  my  Time." 


61 


62         POEMS,  BY  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN. 

Folks  talk  about  dressing  for  dinner, 
But  I  have  for  dinner  undrest ; 

Since  Christmas,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 
I  've  eaten  a  suit  of  my  best. 

I  haven't  a  rag  or  a  mummock 
To  fetch  me  a  chop  or  a  steak ; 

I  wish  that  the  coats  of  my  stomach 
"Were  such  as  mj  Uncle  would  take ! 

When  dishes  were  ready  with  garnish 
My  watch  used  to  warn  with  a  chime — 

But  now  my  repeater  must  furnish 
The  dinner  in  lieu  of  the  time  ! 

My  craving  will  have  no  denials, 
I  can't  fob  it  off.  if  you  stay, 

So  go — and  the  old  Seven  Dials 
Must  tell  me  the  time  of  the  day. 

Your  chimes  I  shall  never  more  hear  'em, 
To  part  is  a  Tic  Douloureux  ! 

But  Tempus  has  his  edax  rerum, 
And  I  have  my  Feeding-Time  too  ! 

Farewell  then,  my  golden  repeater, 
We  "re  come  to  my  Uncle's  old  shop — 

And  Hunger  won't  be  a  dumb-waiter, 
The  Cerberus  growls  for  a  sop  ! 

Alas  !  when  in  Brook  Street  the  upper 
In  comfort  I  lived  between  walls, 

I  've  gone  to  a  dance  for  my  supper ; — 
But  now  I  must  go  to  Three  Balls ! 


DOMESTIC    DIDACTICS 


BY    AN    OLD    SERVANT. 


It  is  not  often  when  the  Nine  descend  that  they  go  so 
low  as  into  areas ;  it  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  they  were 
in  the  habit  of  visiting  John  Humphreys,  in  the  kitchen  of 
No.  189,  Portland-Place,  disguised,  no  doubt,  from  mortal 
eye,  as  seamstresses  or  charwomen — at  all  events,  as  Wini- 
fred Jenkins  says,  "they  were  never  ketch'd  in  the  fact." 
Perhaps  it  was  the  rule  of  the  house  to  allow  no  followers, 
and  they  were  obliged  to  come  by  stealth,  and  to  go  in  the 
same  manner ;  indeed,  from  the  fragmental  nature  of  John's 
verses,  they  appear  to  have  often  left  him  very  abruptly. 
Other  pieces  bear  witness  of  the  severe  distraction  he  suf- 
fered between  his  domestic  duty  to  the  Umphravilles,  twelve 
in  family,  with  their  guests,  and  his  own  secret  visitors  from 
Helicon.  It  must  have  been  provoking,  when  seeking  for  a 
simile,  to  be  sent  in  search  of  a  salt-cellar ;  or  when  hunting 
for  a  rhyme,  to  have  to  look  for  a  missing  teaspoon.  By  a 
whimsical  peculiarity,  the  causes  of  these  lets  and  hindi'an- 
cos  are  recorded  in  his  verses,  by  way  of  parenthesis ;  and 
though  John's  poetry  was  of  a  decidedly  serious  and  moral- 
ising turn,  these  little  insertions  give  it  so  whimsical  a  cha- 
racter, as  to  make  it  an  appropriate  offering  in  the  present 
work.     Poor  John  !  tlie  grave  has  put  a  period  to  his  di- 


66  DOMESTIC   DIDACTICS. 

dactics,  and  the  publication  of  his  lays  in  "Hood's  Own," 
therefore,  cannot  give  him  pain,  as  it  certainly  would  have 
done  otherwise,  for  the  MSS.  were  left  by  last  will  and 
testament  "to  his  very  worthy  master,  Joshua  Umphra- 
ville,  Esq.,  to  be  printed  in  Elegant  Extracts,  or  Flowers 
of  English  Poetry."  The  Editor  is  indebted  to  the  kind- 
ness of  that  gentleman  for  a  selection  from  the  papers; 
which  lie  has  been  unable  to  arrange  chronologically,  as 
John  always  wrote  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  put  dates. 
Whether  he  ever  sent  any  pieces  to  the  periodicals  is  un- 
known, for  he  kept  his  authorship  as  secret  as  Junius' s,  till 
his  death  discovered  his  propensity  for  poetry,  and  happily 
cleared  up  some  points  in  John's  character,  which  had  ap- 
peared to  his  disadvantage.  Thus  when  his  eye  was  "in 
fine  frenzy  rolling,"  bemused  only  with  Castalian  water,  he 
had  been  suspected  of  being  "bemused  with  beer;"  and 
when  he  was  supposed  to  indulge  in  a  morning  sluggishness, 
he  was  really  rising  with  the  sun,  at  least  with  Apollo. 
He  was  accused  occasionally  of  shamming  deafness,  where- 
as it  was  doubtless  nothing  but  the  natural  difficulty  of 
hearing  more  than  Nine  at  once.  Above  all,  he  was 
reckoned  almost  wilfully  unfortunate  in  his  breakage  ;  but 
it  appears  that  when  deductions  for  damage  were  made  from 
his  wages,  the  poetry  ought  to  have  been  stopped,  and  not 
the  money.  The  truth  is,  John's  master  was  a  classical 
scholar,  and  so  accustomed  to  read  of  Pegasus,  and  to  as- 
sociate a  Poet  with  a  horseman,  that  he  never  dreamed  of 
one  as  a  Footman. 

The  Editor  is  too  diffident  to  volunteer  an  elaborate  criti- 
cism of  the  merits  of  Humphreys  as  a  Bard — but  he  pre- 
sumes to  say  thus  much,  that  there  are  several  Authors,  of 
the  present  day,  whom  John  ought  not  to  walk  behind. 


DOMESTIC   DIDACTICS.  67 


THE  BROKEX  DISH. 


What  's  life  but  full  of  care  and  doubt, 
With  all  its  fine  humanities, 

With  parasols  we  walk  about, 
Long  pigtails  and  su-h  vanities. 

We  plant  pomegranite  trees  and  thmgs, 
And  go  in  gardens  sporting, 

With  toys  and  fons  of  peacock's  wings, 
To  painted  ladies  courting. 

We  gather  flowers  of  every  hue, 
And  fish  in  boats  for  fishes, 

Build  summer-houses  painted  blue- 
But  life 's  as  frail  as  dishes. 

Walking  about  their  groves  of  trees, 
Blue  bridges  and  blue  rivers, 

How  little  thought  them  two  Chinese, 
They  "d  both  be  smashed  to  shivers. 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 

WRITTEN  ON-    THE  NIGHT  OF   MY    MISTRESS'S  GRAND  ROUT. 

Oh  Peace  !  oh  come  with  me  and  dwell — 

But  stop,  for  there  's  the  bell. 
Oh  Peace  !  for  thee  I  go  and  sit  in  churches. 
On  Wednesday,  when  there  "s  very  few 
In  loft  or  pew — 
Another  ring,  the  tarts  are  come  from  Birch's. 
Oh  Peace  !  for  thee  I  have  avoided  marriaofe — 
Hush  !  there 's  a  carriage. 


68  DOMESTIC    DIDACTICS. 

Oh  Peace  !  thou  art  the  best  of  earthly  goods — 

The  five  Miss  Woods. 
Oh  Peace  !  thou  art  the  Goddess  I  adore — 

There  come  some  more. 
Oh  Peace !  thou  child  of  solitude  and  quiet — 
That 's  Lord  Drum's  footman,  for  he  loves  a  riot. 
Oh  Peace ! 

Knocks  will  not  cease. 
Oh  Peace  !  thou  wert  for  human  comfort  planned- 

That  's  Weippert's  band. 
Oh  Peace  !  how  glad  I  welcome  thy  approaches — 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coaches. 
Oh  Peace  !  oh  Peace  ! — another  carriage  stops — 

It 's  early  for  the  Blenkinsops. 

Oh  Peace  !  with  thee  I  love  to  wander, 

But  wait  till  I  have  showed  up  Lady  Squander, 

And  now  I  "ve  seen  her  up  the  stair. 

Oh  Peace  ! — but  here  comes  Captain  Hare, 

Oh  Peace  !  thou  art  the  slumber  of  the  mind, 

Untroubled,  calm  and  quiet,  and  unbroken — 

If  that  is  Alderman  Guzzle  from  Portsoken, 

Alderman  Gobble  won't  be  far  behind ; 

Oh  Peace  !  serene  in  worldly  shyness — 

Make  way  there  for  his  Serene  Highness  ! 

Oh  Peace  !  if  you  do  not  disdain 

To  dwell  amongst  the  menial  train, 

I  have  a  silent  place,  and  lone. 

That  you  and  I  may  call  our  own  ; 

Where  tumult  never  makes  an  entry — 

Susan,  what  business  have  you  in  my  pantry  ? 


DOMESTIC   DIDACTICS. 

Oh  Peace  !  but  there  is  INIajor  Monk, 
At  variance  with  his  wife — Oh  Peaxje ! 
And  that  great  German,  Vander  Trunk, 
And  that  great  talker,  IVIiss  Apreece  ; 
Oh  Peace  !  so  dear  to  poets'  quills — 
They  're  just  beginning  their  quadrilles — 
Oh  Peace  !  our  greatest  renovator ; — 
I  wonder  where  I  put  my  waiter — 
Oh  Peace  ! — but  here  my  Ode  I  '11  cease ; 
I  have  no  peace  to  write  of  Peace. 


69 


A  FEW  LINES  ON  COMPLETING  FORTY-SEVEN. 

When  I  reflect  with  serious  sense, 

While  years  and  years  roll  on. 
How  soon  I  may  1)6  summoned  hence — 

There  's  cook  a-calliug  John. 

Our  lives  are  built  so  frail  and  poor, 

On  sand  and  not  on  rocks, 
We  're  hourly  standing  at  Death's  door — 

There's  some  one  double-knocks. 


All  human  days  have  settled  terms, 

Our  fates  w^e  cannot  force  ; 
This  flesh  of  mine  will  feed  the  worms — 

They  're  come  to  lunch  of  course. 

And  when  my  body  "s  turned  to  clay, 
And  dear  friends  hear  my  knell, 

0  let  them  give  a  sigh  and  say — 
I  hear  the  upstairs  bell.. 


70  DOMESTIC   DIDACTICS. 

TO  MARY  HOUSEMAID, 

ON    TALENTIXE'3   DAT. 

Mary,  you  know  I  've  no  love-nonsense, 
And,  though  I  pen  on  such  a  day, 

I  don't  mean  flirting,  on  my  conscience, 
Or  writing  in  the  courting  way. 

Though  Beauty  hasn"t  formed  your  feature. 
It  saves  you,  p'rhaps.  from  being  vain, 

And  many  a  poor  unhappy  creature    . 
May  wish  that  she  was  half  as  plain. 

Your  virtues  would  not  rise  an  inch, 

Although  your  shape  was  two  foot  taller, 

And  wisely  you  let  others  pinch 

Great  waists  and  feet  to  make  them  smaller. 

You  never  try  to  spare  your  hands 
From  getting  red  by  household  duty ; 

But,  doing  all  that  it  commands, 
Their  coarseness  is  a  moral  beauty. 

Let  Susan  flourish  her  fair  arms 

And  at  your  odd  legs  sneer  and  scoff, 

But  let  her  laugh,  for  you  have  charms 
That  nobody  knows  nothing  o£ 


BALLADS: 

SERIOUS,  VERY  SERIOUS,  AND  PATHETIC. 


BALLADS. 

THE   POACHER. 

A    SERIOUS   BALLAD. 

But  a  bold  pheasaiiti-}-,  thoir  country's  pride, 
"When  ouce  destroyed  c;ui  never  be  supplied. 

Goldsmith. 

Bill  Blossom  \Yas  a  nice  young  man, 

And  drove  the  Bur j  coach ; 
But  bad  companions  were  his  bane, 

And  egged  him  on  to  poach. 

They  taught  him  how  to  net  the  birds, 

And  how  to  noose  the  hare ; 
And  with  a  wiry  terrier, 

He  often  set  a  snare. 

Each  "  shiny  night"  the  moon  was  bright. 

To  park,  preserve,  and  wood 
He  went,  and  kept  the  game  alive. 

By  killing  all  he  could. 

Land-owners,  who  had  rabbits,  swore 

That  he  had  this  demerit — 
Give  him  an  inch  of  warren,  he 

Would  take  a  yard  of  ferret. 
4 


74  THE    rOACHER. 

At  partridges  he  was  not  nice ; 

And  many,  large  and  small, 
Without  Hairs  powder,  without  lead, 

"Were  sent  to  Leaden-Hall. 

He  did  not  fear  to  take  a  deer 
From  forest,  park,  or  lawn  ; 

And  without  courting  lord  or  duke, 
Used  frequently  to  faivn. 

Folks  who  had  hares  discovered  snares- 
His  course  thej  could  not  stop : 

No  barber  he,  and  jet  he  made 
Their  hares  a  perfect  crop. 

To  pheasant  he  Avas  such  a  foe, 
He  tried  the  keeper's  nerves  ; 

They  swore  he  never  seemed  to  have 
Jam  satis  of  preserves. 

The  Shooter  went  to  beat,  and  found 

No  sporting  worth  a  pin, 
Unless  he  tried  the  covers  made 

Of  silver,  plate,  or  tin. 

In  Kent  the  game  was  little  worth, 

In  Surrey  not  a  button  ; 
The  Speaker  said  he  often  tried 

The  Manors  about  Sutton. 

No  county  from  his  tricks  was  safe ; 

In  each  he  tried  his  lucks. 
But  when  the  keepers  were  in  Beds^ 

He  often  was  at  Bucks. 


THE   SUPPER   SUPERSTITION.  75 

And  when  he  went  to  Bucks,  alas  ! 

They  always  came  to  Herts  ; 
And  even  Oxoii  used  to  wish 

That  he  had  his  deserts. 

But  going  to  his  usual  Hants, 

Old  Cheshire  laid  his  plots  ; 
He  got  entrapped  by  legal  Berks, 

And  lost  his  life  in  Notts. 


THE  SUPPER  SUPERSTITION. 

A   PATHETIC   BALLAD. 
»  Oh  flesh,  flesh,  how  art  thou  flshifled !"— Meecctio. 

'T  WAS  twelve  o'clock  by  Chelsea  chimes, 

When  all  in  hungry  trim, 
Good  Mister  Jupp  sat  down  to  sup 

With  wife,  and  Kate,  and  Jim. 

Said  he,  '•  Upon  this  dainty  cod 
How  bravely  I  shall  sup,"' — 

When,  whiter  than  the  table-cloth, 
A  GHOST  came  rising  up  ! 

"0,  father  dear,  0,  mother  dear, 
Dear  Kate,  and  brother  Jim — 

You  know  when  some  one  went  to  sea — 
Don't  cry — but  I  am  him  ! 

"  You  hope  some  day  with  fond  embrace 

To  greet  your  absent  Jack, 
But  oh.  I  am  come  here  to  say 

I  'm  never  coming  back  ! 


76  THE   SUPPER   SUPERSTITION. 

"  From  Alexandria  we  set  sail, 
With  corn,  and  oil.  and  ficrs, 

But  steering  '  too  much  Sow"  we  struck 
Upon  the  Sow  and  Pigs  ! 

"  The  Ship  we  pumped  till  we  could  see 
Old  England  from  the  tops  : 

When  down  she  went  Avith  all  our  hands, 
Right  in  the  Channels  Chops. 

"  Just  give  a  look  in  Norej's  chart, 

The  very  place  it  tells  ; 
I  think  it  says  twelve  fathom  deep. 

Clay  bottom,  mixed  with  shells. 

"Well  there  we  are  till  'hands  aloft,' 

We  have  at  last  a  call ; 
The  pug  I  had  for  brother  Jim, 

Kate"s  parrot  too.  and  all. 

"  But  oh,  my  spirit  cannot  rest. 

In  Davy  Jones's  sod, 
Till  I  've  appeared  to  you  and  said — 

Don't  sup  on  that  'ere  Cod ! 

"  You  live  on  land,  and  little  think 

TMiat  passes  in  the  sea ; 
Last  Sunday  week,  at  2  p.m. 

That  Cod  was  picking  me  ! 

"  Those  oysters  too.  that  look  so  plump, 

And  seem  so  nicely  done. 
They  put  my  corpse  in  many  shells, 

Instead  of  only  one. 


A    WATERLOO    BALLAD.  77 

"0,  do  not  eat  those  oysters  then, 

And  do  not  touch  the  shrimps  ; 
When  I  was  in  my  briny  grave, 

They  sucked  my  blood  like  imps ! 

"  Don't  eat  what  brutes  would  never  eat, 

The  brutes  I  used  to  pat. 
They  '11  know  the  smell  they  used  to  smell, 

Just  try  the  dog  and  cat !" 

The  Spirit  fled — they  wept  his  fate, 

And  cried,  Alack,  alack  ! 
At  last  up  started  brother  Jim, 

"  Let 's  try  if  Jack  was  Jack  !" 

They  called  the  Dog,  they  called  the  Cat, 

And  little  Kitten  too, 
And  down  they  put  the  Cod  and  sauce, 

To  sec  what  brutes  would  do. 

Old  Tray  licked  all  the  oysters  up, 

Puss  never  stood  at  crimps. 
But  munched  the  Cod — and  little  Kit 

Quite  feasted  on  the  shrimps  ! 

The  thing  was  odd,  and  minus  Cod 

And  sauce,  they  stood  like  posts  ! 
0,  prudent  folks,  for  fear  of  hoax, 

Put  no  belief  in  Ghosts  ! 


A  WATERLOO  BALLAD. 

To  Waterloo,  with  sad  ado. 
And  many  a  sigh  and  groan. 

Amongst  the  dead,  came  Patty  Head, 
To  look  for  Peter  Stone. 


78  A    WATERLOO    BALLAD. 

"  0  prithee  tell,  good  sentinel, 

If  I  shall  find  him  here  ? 
I  "m  come  to  weep  upon  his  corse, 

Mj  Xinety-Second  dear ! 

"Into  our  town  a  serjeant  came 

With  ribands  all  so  fine, 
A-flaunting  in  his  cap — alas ; 

His  bow  enlisted  mine  ! 

"  They  taught  him  how  to  turn  his  toes, 
And  stand  as  stiif  as  starch  : 

I  thought  that  it  was  love  and  May, 
But  it  was  love  and  March  ! 

"  A  sorry  ^larch  indeed  to  leave 
The  friends  he  might  have  kep' — 

No  March  of  Intellect  it  was, 
But  quite  a  foolish  step. 

"  0  prithee  tell,  good  sentinel, 

If  hereabout  he  lies  ? 
I  want  a  corse  with  reddish  hair, 

And  very  sweet  blue  eyes." 

Her  sorrow  on  the  sentinel 
Appeared  to  deeply  strike : — 

"Walk  in,"  he  said,  "among  the  dead, 
And  pick  out  which  you  like." 

And  soon  she  picked  out  Peter  Stone, 

Half  turned  into  a  corse ; 
A  cannon  was  his  bolster,  and 

His  mattrass  was  a  horse. 


A    WATERLOO    BALLAD.                                      7 

"  0  Peter  Stone,  0  Peter  Stone, 

Lord  here  has  been  a  scrimmage ! 
"What  have  they  done  to  your  poor  breast 

That  used  to  hold  my  image?"' 

'■  0  Patty  Head,  0  Patty  Head, 

You  're  come  to  my  last  kissing  ; 
Before  I  "m  set  in  the  Gazette 

As  wounded,  dead,  and  missing  ! 

"  Alas  !  a  splinter  of  a  shell 

Right  in  my  stomach  sticks : 
French  mortars  don't  agree  so  well 

With  stomachs  as  French  bricks. 

"  This  very  night  a  merry  dance 

At  Brussels  was  to  be  ; — 
Instead  of  oj^ning  a  ball, 

A  ball  has  opened  me. 

••  Its  billet  every  bullet  has, 

And  well  it  does  fulfil  it : — 
I  wish  mine  hadn't  come  so  straight,^ 

But  been  a  •  crooked  billet.' 

"And  then  there  came  a  cuirassier 

And  cut  me  on  the  chest : — 
He  had  no  pity  in  his  heart, 

For  he  had  steeled  his  breast. 

''  Next  thing  a.  lancer,  with  his  lance, 

Began  to  thrust  away : 
I  called  for  quarter,  .but,  alas  ! 

9 

It  was  not  Quarter-day. 

80  A    WATERLOO    BALLAD. 

"  He  ran  his  spear  right  through  my  arm, 
Just  here  above  the  joint ; — 

0  Patty  dear,  it  was  no  joke, 
Although  it  had  a  point. 

"  With  loss  of  blood  I  fainted  oflF, 

As  dead  as  women  do — 
But  soon  by  charging  over  me, 

The  Coldstream  brought  me  to. 

"  With  kicks  and  cuts,  and  balls  and  bloTTS, 
I  throb  and  ache  all  over ; 

1  'm  quite  convinced  the  field  of  Mars 

Is  not  a  field  of  clover  ! 

"  0  why  did  I  a  soldier  turn 

For  any  royal  Guelph  ? 
I  might  have  been  a  butcher,  and 

In  business  for  myself ! 

"  0  why  did  I  the  bounty  take 
(And  here  he  gasped  for  breath) 

My  shilling's  worth  of  'list  is  nailed 
Upon  the  door  of  death  ! 

"  Without  a  coffin  I  shall  lie 
And  sleep  my  sleep  eternal : 

Not  ev"n  a  shell — my  only  chance 
Of  being  made  a  Kernel ! 

"  0  Patty  dear,  our  wedding  bella 

Will  never  ring  at  Chester  ! 
Here  I  must  lie  in  Honor's  bed. 

That  isn't  worth  a  tester ! 


THE    DUEL. 


81 


"  Farewell,  my  regimental  mates, 
With  Avhom  I  used  to  dress  ! 

My  corps  is  changed,  and  I  am  now, 
In  quite  another  mess. 

"  Farewell,  my  Patty  dear,  I  have 

No  dying  consolations. 
Except,  when  I  am  dead,  you  '11  go 

And  see  th'  Illuminations." 


THE  DUEL. 


A     SERIOUS     BALLAD. 
"  Like  the  two  Kings  of  Brentford  smelling  at  one  nosegay." 

In  Brentford  town,  of  old  renown, 

There  lived  a  Mr.  Bray, 
Who  fell  in  love  with  Lucy  Bell, 

And  so  did  Mr.  Clay. 

To  see  her  ride  from  Hammersmith, 

By  all  it  was  allowed. 
Such  fair  outsides  are  seldom  seen, 

Such  Angels  on  a  Cloud. 

Said  Mr.  Bray  to  Mr.  Clay, 

You  choose  to  rival  me, 
And  court  INIiss  Bell,  but  there  your  court 

No  thoroughfare  shall  be. 

Unless  you  now  give  up  your  suit. 

You  may  repent  your  love ; 
I  who  have  shot  a  pigeon  match, 

Can  shoot  a  turtle  dove. 


82  THE    DUEL. 

So  praj  before  you  woo  her  more, 

Consider  what  you  do ; 
If  you  pop  aught  to  Lucy  Bell — 

I  '11  pop  it  into  you. 

Said  Mr.  Clay  to  Mr.  Bray, 
Your  threats  I  quite  explode ; 

One  who  has  been  a  volunteer, 
Knows  how  to  prime  and  load. 

And  so  I  say  to  you  unless 

Your  passion  quiet  keeps, 
I  who  have  shot  and  hit  bulls'  eyes, 

]\Iay  chance  to  hit  a  sheep's. 

Now  gold  is  oft  for  silver  changed, 

And  that  for  copper  red ; 
But  these  two  Avent  away  to  give 

Each  other  change  for  lead. 

But  first  they  sought  a  friend  a-piece. 
This  pleasant  thought  to  give — 

When  they  were  dead,  they  thus  should  have 
Two  seconds  still  to  live. 

To  measure  out  the  ground  not  long 

The  seconds  then  forbore. 
And  having  taken  one  rash  step 

They  took  a  dozen  more. 

They  next  prepared  each  pistol-pan 

Against  the  deadly  strife, 
By  putting  in  the  prime  of  death 

Against  the  prime  of  life. 


THE    DUEL. 


83 


Now  all  was  ready  for  the  foes, 
But  when  they  took  their  stands, 

Fear  made  them  tremble  so  they  found 
They  both  were  shaking  hands. 

Said  Mr.  C.  to  Mr.  B., 

Here  one  of  us  may  fall, 
And  like  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  now, 

Be  doomed  to  have  a  ball. 

I  do  confess  I  did  attach 

T^Iisconduct  to  your  name  ; 
If  I  withdraw  the  charge,  will  then 

Your  ramrod  do  the  same  ? 

Said  Mr.  B.,  I  do  agree — 
But  think  of  Honor's  Courts  ! 

If  we  go  off  without  a  shot. 
There  will  be  strange  reports. 

But  look,  the  morning  now  is  bright, 

Though  cloudy  it  begun  ; 
Why  can't  we  aim  above,  as  if 

We  had  called  out  the  sun  ? 

So  up  into  the  harmless  air. 
Their  bullets  they  did  send ; 

And  may  all  other  duels  have 
That  upshot  in  the  end ! 


84  THE    GHOST. 


THE  GHOST. 

A  YERT  SERIOUS   BALLAD, 
"  I  '11  be  your  second." — Libton, 

In  Middle  Row,  some  years  ago, 
There  lived  one  Mr.  Brown  ; 

And  many  folks  considered  him 
The  stoutest  man  in  town. 

But  Brown  and  stout  will  both  wear  out, 

One  Friday  he  died  hard, 
And  left  a  widowed  wife  to  mourn 

At  twenty  pence  a  yard. 

Now  widow  B.  in  two  short  months 
Thought  mourning  quite  a  tax. 

And  wished,  like  Mr.  Wilberforce, 
To  mamimit  her  blacks. 

With  Mr.  Street  she  soon  was  sweet ; 

The  thing  thus  came  about : 
She  asked  him  in  at  home,  and  then 

At  church  he  asked  her  out ! 

Assurance  such  as  this  the  man 

In  ashes  could  not  stand  ; 
So  like  a  Phoenix  he  rose  up 

Against  the  Hand  in  Hand. 

One  dreary  night  the  angry  sprite , 

Appeared  before  our  view  ; 
It  came  a  little  after  one, 

But  she  was  after  two  ! 


THE    GHOST.  85 


*'  Oh  Mrs.  B.,  oh  Mrs.  B.  ! 

Are  these  jour  sorrow's  deeds, 
Already  getting  up  a  flame 
To  burn  jour  widow's  weeds  ? 

*'  It 's  not  so  long  since  I  have  left 

For  aje  the  mortal  scene  ; 
Mj  Memorj — like  Rogers's, 

Should  still  be  bound  in  green  ! 

"  Yet  if  mj  face  jou  still  retrace 

I  almost  have  a  doubt — 
I  'm  like  an  old  Forget-]\Ie-Not 

AVith  all  the  leaves  torn  out ! 

*'  To  think  that  on  that  finger  joint 
Another  pledge  should  cling ; 

Oh  Bess  !  upon  mj  verj  soul 
It  struck  like  '  Knock  and  Ring.' 

"  A  ton  of  marble  on  mj  breast 

Can't  hinder  mj  return ; 
Your  conduct,  Ma'am,  has  set  mj  blood 

A-boiling  in  mj  urn  ! 

"Remember,  oh  !  remember,  how 
The  marriage  rite  did  run — 

If  ever  we  one  flesh  should  be 
'Tis  now — when  I  have  none  ! 

"And  JOU,  sir — once  a  bosom  friend — 

Of  perjured  faith  convict, 
As  ghostlj  toe  can  give  no  blow, 

Consider  jou  are  kicked. 


86  SALLY   SIMPKIN'S   LAMENT. 

"  A  hollow  voice  is  all  I  have, 
But  this  I  tell  you  plain, 

Marry  come  up  ! — you  marry  Ma'am, 
And  I  "11  come  up  again." 

More  he  had  said,  but  chanticleer 
The  sprightly  shade  did  shock 

With  sudden  crow,  and  off  he  went, 
Like  fowling-piece  at  cock ! 


SALLY  SIMPKIN'S   LAMENT; 

OR,  JOHN   JONT:s'S   Kir-CAT-ASTROPHE. 

"He  left  his  horly  to  the  sea. 
And  made  a  shark  his  legatee.'' 

Bbvax  and  Pebennk. 

■'  Oh  !  what  is  that  comes  gliding  in, 

And  quite  in  middling  haste  ? 
It  is  the  picture  of  my  Jones, 

And  painted  to  the  waist. 

"  It  is  not  painted  to  the  life, 
For  where "s  the  trowsers  blue? 

Oh  Jones,  my  dear  ! — Oh  dear  !  my  Jones, 
What  is  become  of  you  ?"' 

"  Oh  !   Sally  dear,  it  is  too  true — 

The  half  that  you  remark 
Is  come  to  say  my  other  half 

Is  bit  off  by  a  shark  ! 

"  Oh  !   Sally,  sharks  do  things  by  halves, 

Yet  most  completely  do  ! 
A  bite  in  one  place  seems  enough, 

But  I  've  been  bit  in  two. 


SALLY    SIMPKIN'S   LAMENT. 

"  You  kno'R'  I  once  was  all  your  own 
But  now  a  shark  must  share  ! 

But  let  that  pass — ^for  now  to  you 
I  'm  neither  here  nor  there. 

"  Alas  !  death  has  a  strange  divorce 

Effected  in  the  sea, 
It  has  divided  me  from  you, 

And  even  mo  from  me  ! 


87 


"Don't  fear  my  ghost  will  walk  o'  nights 

To  haunt,  as  people  say  ; 
My  ghost  can't  walk,  for,  oh  !  my  legs 

Are  many  leagues  away ! 

"  Lord  !  think  when  I  am  swimming  round 
And  looking  where  the  boat  is, 

A  shark  just  snaps  away  a  half^ 
"Without  '  a  quarter  s  notice.' 

"  One  half  is  here,  the  other  half, 

Is  near  Columbia  placed  ; 
Oh  !  Sally,  I  have  got  the  whole 

Atlantic  for  my  waist. 

"  But  now,  adieu — a  long  adieu  ! 

I  've  solved  death's  awful  riddle, 
And  would  say  more,  but  I  am  doomed 

To  break  off  in  the  middle  !" 


88  JOHN    DAY. 


JOHN  DAY. 

A   PATHETIC    BALLAD. 
"A  Day  after  the  Fair!" — Old  Pbovirb. 

John  Day  he  was  the  bigcrest  man 
Of  all  the  coachman-kind, 

With  back  too  broad  to  be  conceived 
By  any  narrow  mind. 

The  very  horses  knew  his  weight 
When  he  was  in  the  rear, 

And  wished  his  box  a  Christmas-box 
To  come  but  once  a  year. 

Alas  !  against  the  shafts  of  love, 

What  armor  can  avail  ? 
Soon  Cupid  sent  an  arrow  through 

His  scarlet  coat  of  mail. 

The  bar-maid  of  the  Crown  he  loved 
From  whom  he  never  ranged. 

For  tho'  he  changed  his  horses  there, 
His  love  he  never  changed. 

He  thought  her  fairest  of  all  fares, 

So  fondly  love  prefers ; 
And  often,  among  twelve  outsides, 

Deemed  no  outside  like  hers. 

One  day  as  she  was  sitting  down 
Beside  the  porter-pump — 

He  came,  and  knelt  with  all  his  fat, 
And  made  an  offer  plump. 


JOHN   DAY.  89 

Said  she,  my  taste  will  never  lean 

To  like  so  huge  a  man, 
So  I  must  beg  you  will  come  here 

As  little  as  you  can. 

But  still  he  stoutly  urged  his  suit, 

With  vows,  and  sighs,  and  tears. 
Yet  could  not  pierce  her  heart,  although 

He  drove  the  Dart  for  years. 

In  vain  he  wooed,  in  vain  he  sued ; 

The  maid  was  cold  and  proud. 
And  sent  him  off  to  Coventry, 

While  on  his  way  to  Stroud. 

He  fretted  all  the  way  to  Stroud, 

And  thence  all  back  to  town, 
The  course  of  love  was  never  smooth. 

So  his  Avent  up  and  down. 

At  last  her  coldness  made  him  pine 

To  merely  bones  and  skin ; 
But  still  he  loved  like  one  resolved 

To  love  through  thick  and  thin. 

Oh  Mary,  view  my  wasted  back. 

And  see  my  dwindled  calf; 
Tho'  I  have  never  had  a  wife, 

I've  lost  my  better  half. 

Alas,  in  vain  he  still  assailed. 

Her  heart  withstood  the  dint ; 
Though  he  had  carried  sixteen  stone 

He  could  not  move  a  flint. 


90  pompey's  ghost. 

Worn  out,  at  last  he  made  a  vow 

To  break  his  being's  link  ; 
For  he  was  so  reduced  in  size 

At  nothing  he  could  shrink. 

.   Now  some  will  talk  in  water's  praise,x 
And  waste  a  deal  of  breath, 
But  John,  though  he  drank  nothing  else- 
He  drank  himself  to  death. 

The  cruel  maid  that  caused  his  love, 

Found  out  the  fatal  close. 
For  looking  in  the  butt,  she  saw, 

The  butt-end  of  his  woes. 

Some  say  his  spirit  haunts  the  Crown, 

But  that  is  only  talk — 
For  after  riding  all  his  life. 

His  ghost  objects  to  walk. 


POMPEY'S  GHOST. 

A   PATHETIC    BALLAD. 

"Skins  may  diffor,  liut  affection 
Dwells  in  white  and  black  the  same." 

COWPEE. 

'TWAS  twelve  o'clock,  not  twelve  at  nigh' 

But  twelve  o'clock  at  noon ; 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  bright 

And  not  the  silver  moon. 
A  proper  time  for  friends  to  call, 

Or  Pots,  or  Penny  Post ; 
When,  lo  !  as  Phoebe  sat  at  work, 

She  saw  her  Pompey's  Ghost ! 


pompet's  ghost. 

Now  when  a  female  has  a  call 

From  people  that  are  dead ; 
Like  Paris  ladies,  she  receives 

Her  visiters  in  bed. 
But  Pompej's  spirit  would  not  come 

Like  spirits  that  are  white, 
Because  he  was  a  Blackamoor, 

And  would  n't  show  at  night ! 

But  of  all  unexpected  things 

That  happen  to  us  here, 
The  most  unpleasant  is  a  rise 

In  what  is  verj  dear. 
So  Phoebe  screamed  an  awful  scream 

To  prove  the  seaman's  text ; 
That  after  black  appearances, 

White  squalls  will  follow  next. 

"  Oh,  Phoebe  dear  !  oh,  Phoebe  dear ! 

Don't  go  to  scream  or  faint; 
You  think  because  I  'm  black  I  am 

The  Devil,  but  I  ain"t ! 
Behind  the  heels  of  Ladj  Lambe 

I  walked  while  I  had  breath  ; 
But  that  is  past,  and  I  am  now 

A-walking  after  Death ! 

"No  murder,  though,  I  come  to  tell 

By  base  and  bloody  crime ; 
So  Phoebe  dear,  put  off  your  fits 

To  some  more  fitting  time. 
No  Coroner,  like  a  boatswain's  mate, 

My  body  need  attack. 
With  his  round  dozen  to  find  out 

Why  I  have  died  so  black. 


91 


92  pompey's  ghost. 

"  One  Sunday,  shortly  after  tea, 

My  skin  began  to  burn 
As  if  I  had  in  my  inside 

A  heater,  like  the  urn. 
Delirious  in  the  night  I  grew, 

And  as  I  lay  in  bed, 
They  say  I  gathered  all  the  wool 

You  see  upon  my  head. 

"  His  Lordship  for  his  Doctor  sent, 

My  treatment  to  begin ; — 
I  wish  that  he  had  called  him  out, 

Before  he  called  him  in  ! 
For  though  to  physic  he  was  bred, 

And  passed  at  Surgeon's  Hall, 
To  make  his  post  a  sinecure 

He  never  cured  at  all ! 

"  The  Doctor  looked  about  my  breast, 

And  then  about  my  back, 
And  then  he  shook  his  head  and  said 

'Your  case  looks  very  black.' 
And  first  he  sent  me  hot  cayenne 

And  then  gamboge  to  swallow, 
But  still  my  fever  would  not  turn 

To  Scarlet  or  to  Yellow  ! 

"With  madder  and  with  turmeric. 

He  made  his  next  attack  ; 
But  neither  he  nor  all  his  drugs 

Could  stop  my  dying  black. 
At  last  I  got  so  sick  of  life, 

And  sick  of  being  dosed, 
One  Monday  morning  I  gave  up 

My  physic  and  the  ghost ! 


pompey's  ghost.  ^3 


"  Oh,  Phoebe,  dear,  what  pain  it  was 

To  sever  every  tie  ! 
You  know  black  beetles  feel  as  much 

As  giants  when  they  die. 
And  if  there  is  a  bridal  bed, 

Or  bride  of  little  worth, 
It 's  lying  in  a  bed  of  mould. 

Along  with  Mother  Earth. 

"Alas;  some  happy,  happy  day, 

In  church  I  hoped  to  stand, 
And  like  a  muff  of  sable  skin 

Receive  your  lily  hand. 
But  sternly  with  that  piebald  match, 

]My  fate  untimely  clashes, 
For  now,  like  Pompe-double-i, 

I  'm  sleeping  in  my  ashes  ! 

"  And  now  farewell !  a  last  farewell ! 

I  'm  wanted  down  below, 
And  have  but  time  enough  to  add 

One  word  before  I  go — 
In  mourning  crape  and  bombazine 

Ne'er  spend  your  precious  pelf — 
Don't  go  in  black  for  me — for  I 

Can  do  it  for  myself. 

"  Henceforth  within  my  grave  I  rest, 

But  Death  wlio  there  inherits, 
Allowed  my  spirit  leave  to  come. 

You  seemed  so  out  of  spirits  : 
But  do  not  sigh,  and  do  not  cry. 

By  grief  too  much  engrossed. 
Nor  for  a  ghost  of  color,  turn 

The  color  of  a  ghost ! 


94  pompey's  ghost. 

"  Again,  farewell,  my  Phoebe  dear  ! 

Once  more  a  last  adieu  ! 
For  I  must  make  myself  as  scarce 

As  swans  of  sable  hue." 
From  black  to  gray,  from  gray  to  nought, 

The  shape  began  to  fade — 
And,  like  an  egg,  though  not  so  white, 

The  Ghost  was  newly  laid  ! 


ODESs 


TO  DIVERS  PERSONS  AND  FOR  SUNDRY  OCCASIONS. 


ODES. 


ODE  TO  M.  BRUXEL.' 

"  '^ell  said,  old  Mole !  canst  work  i'  the  dark  so  fast  ?    a  -svorthy  pioneer ! — Hamt.'KT. 

Well  ! Monsieur  Brunei, 

Ho-vr  prospers  now  tliy  mightj  undertaking, 
To  join  by  a  hollow  way  the  Bankside  friends 
Of  Rotherhithe,  and  Wapping — 

Never  be  stopping, 
But  poking,  groping,  in  the  dark  keep  making 
An  archway,  underneath  the  Dabs  and  Gudgeons, 
For  Collier  men  and  pitchy  old  Curmudgeons 
To  cross  the  water  in  inverse  proportion. 
Walk  under  steam-boats  imder  the  keel's  ridge, 
To  keep  down  all  extortion, 
And  without  sculls  to  diddle  London  Bridge  ! 
In  a  fresh  hunt,  a  new  Great  Bore  to  worry, 
Thou  didst  to  earth  thy  human  terriers  follow, 
Hopeful  at  last  from  Middlesex  to  Surrey, 

To  give  us  the  "  View  hollow." 
In  short  it  was  thy  aim,  right  north  and  south, 
To  put  a  pipe  into  old  Thames's  mouth ; 
Alas  !  half-way  thou  hadst  proceeded,  when 
Old  Thames,  through  roof,  not  water-proof, 

5 


5  ODE   TO    M.    BRUXEL. 

Came,  like  "a  tide  in  the  afiairs  of  men;" 
And  with  a  mighty  stormy  kind  of  roar, 
Reproachful  of  thy  wrong, 
Burst  out  in  that  old  song 
Of  Incledon's,  beginning  "  Cease,  rude  Bore*' — 
Sad  is  it,  worthy  of  one's  tears, 

Just  when  one  seems  the  most  successful, 
To  find  one's  self  o'er  head  and  ears 

In  difiiculties  most  distressful ! 
Other  great  speculations  have  been  nursed 

Till  want  of  proceeds  laid  them  on  a  shelf; 
But  thy  concern  was  at  the  worst 

When  it  began  to  liquidate  itself ! 
But  now  Dame  Fortune  has  her  false  face  hidden, 
And  languishes  thy  Tunnel — so  to  paint — 
Under  a  slow,  incurable  complaint, 

Bed-ridden ! 
Why,  when  thus  Thames — bed-bothered — why  repine  ! 
Do  try  a  spare  bed  at  the  Serpentine  ! 
Yet  let  none  think  thee  dazed,  or  crazed,  or  stupid ; 

And  sunk  beneath  thy  own  and  Thames's  craft ; 
Let  them  not  style  thee  some  Mechanic  Cupid 

Pining  and  pouting  o'er  a  broken  shaft ! 
I '11  tell  thee  with  thy  tunnel  what  to  do; 
Light  up  thy  boxes,  build  a  bin  or  two, 
The  wine  does  better  than  such  water  trades ; 

Stick  up  a  sign — the  sign  of  the  Bore's  Head ; 

I  've  drawn  it  ready  for  thee  in  black  lead. 
And  make  thy  cellar  subterrane — Thy  Shades  ! 


ODE  FOR  THE  REMOVAL  OP  SMITHFIELD  MARKET.        09 

ODE 

TO   THE    ADVOCATES   FOR   THE   REilOVAL   OF   SMITHFIELD   MARKET. "•' 
"Sweeping  our  flocks  and  herds." — Douglas. 

0  PHILANTHROPIC  men  ! — 

For  this  address  I  need  not  make  apology — 

Who  aim  at  clearing  out  the  Smithfield  pen, 

And  planting  further  off  its  vile  Zoology — ■ 

Permit  me  thus  to  tell, 

1  like  your  efforts  well, 

For  routing  that  great  nest  of  Hornithology  ! 

Be  not  dismayed,  although  repulsed  at  first. 
And  driven  from  their  Horse,  and  Pig,  and  Lamb  parts, 
Charge  on  i — you  shall  upon  their  horn- works  burst. 
And  carry  all  their  ij«^/-warks  and  their  i2a?/^-parts. 

Go  on,  ye  wholesale  drovers  ! 
And  drive  away  the  Smithfield  flocks  and  herds  ! 

As  wild  as  Tartar-Curds, 
That  come  so  fat,  and  kicking,  from  their  clovers. 
Off  with  them  all ! — those  restive  brutes,  that  vex 
Our  streets,  and  plunge,  and  lunge,  and  butt,  and  battle ; 

And  save  the  female  sex 
From  being  cowed — like  lo — by  the  cattle  ! 

Fancy — when  droves  appear  on 
The  hill  of  Holborn,  roaring  from  its  top — 
Your  ladies — ready,  as  they  own,  to  drop. 
Taking  themselves  to  Thomson's  with  a  Fear-on! 

Or,  in  St.  Martin's  Lane, 
Scared  by  a  Bullock,  in  a  frisky  vein — 
Fancy  the  terror  of  your  timid  daughters, 

While  rushing  souse 

Into  a  coffee-house, 
To  find  it— Slaughter's ! 


lOO  ode  for  the  removal  of 

Or  fancy  this : — 
Walking  along  the  street,  some  stranger  Miss, 
Her  head  \viLh  no  such  thouojht  of  danger  laden, 
When  suddenly  "tis  "Aries  Taurus  Virgo  !" — 
You  don't  know  Latin,  I  translate  it  ergo, 
Into  your  Areas  a  Bull  throws  the  ]\Iaiden ! 

Think  of  some  poor  old  crone 
Treated,  just  like  a  penny,  with  a  toss  ! 

At  that  vile  spot  now  grown 

So  generally  known 
For  making  a  Cow  Cross  ! 

Nay,  fancy  your  own  selves  far  off  from  stall, 
Or  shed,  or  shop — and  that  an  Ox  infuriate 

Just  pins  you  to  the  wall, 
Giving  you  a  strong  dose  of  Oxy-Muriate  ! 

Methinks  I  hear  the  neighbors  that  live  round 

The  Market-ground 
Thus  make  appeal  unto  their  civic  fellows — 
'"Tis  well  for  you  that  live  apart — unable 

To  hear  this  brutal  Babel, 
But  OMV  firesides  are  troubled  with  their  bellows.'^ 

"  Folks  that  too  freely  sup 

Must  e'en  put  up 
With  their  own  troubles  if  they  can"t  digest; 

But  we  must  needs  regard 

The  case  as  hard 
That  others'  victuals  should  disturb  our  rest, 
That  from  our  sleep  your  food  should  start  and  jump  us 

We  like,  ourselves,  a  steak. 

But,  Sirs,  for  pity's  sake  ! 
We  don't  want  oxen  at  our  doors  to  rump-us  ! 


SMITHFIELD    MARKET.  101 

If  we  do  doze — it  really  is  too  l^ad  ! 

We  constantly  are  roared  awake  or  rung, 

Through  bullocks  mad 
That  run  in  all  the  '  Night  Thoughts'  of  our  Young  !" 

Such  are  the  woes  of  sleepers — now  let 's  take 
The  woes  of  those  that  wish  to  keep  a  Wake  ! 
Oh  think  !  when  Wombwell  gives  his  annual  feasts, 
Think  of  these  '-Bulls  of  Basan'  for  from  mild  ones; 

Such  fierce  tame  beasts, 
That  nobod/  much  cares  to  see  the  Wild  ones  ! 

Think  of  the  Show  woman  "  what  shows  a  Dwarf," 

Seeing  a  red  Cow  come 

To  swallow  her  Tom  Thumb, 
And  forced  with  broom  of  birch  to  keep  her  off! 

Think,  too,  of  Messrs.  Richai'dson  and  Co., 
When  looking  at  their  public  private  boxes, 

To  see  in  the  back  row 
Three  live  sheep's  heads,  a  porker's,  and  an  Ox's  ! 
Think  of  their  Orchestra,  when  two  horns  come 
Through,  to  accompany  the  double  drum  ! 

Or,  in  the  midst  of  murder  and  remorses, 

Just  when  the  Ghost  is  certain, 

A  great  rent  in  the  curtain. 
And  enter  two  tall  skeletons — of  Horses  ! 

Great  Philanthropies  !  pray  urge  these  topics  ! 
Upon  the  Solemn  Councils  of  the  Nation, 
Get  a  Bill  soon,  and  give,  some  noon. 
The  Bulls,  a  Bull  of  Excommunication  ! 

Let  the  old  Fair  have  fiir-play  as  its  right, 
And  to  each  show  and  sight 


102 


ODE    TO    THE    CA::I; 


vV.J). 


Ye  shall  be  treated  with  a  Free  List  latitude, 
To  Richardson's  Stage  Dramas, 
Dio — and  Cosmo — ramas, 
Giants  and  Indians  wild, 
Dwarf,  Sea  Bear,  and  Fat  Child, 

And  that  most  rare  of  Shows — a  Show  of  Gratitude  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  CA^IELOPAEQ. 

Welcome  to  Freedom's  birthplace — ^and  a  den ! 

Great  Anti-climax,  hail  ! 
So  very  lofty  in  thy  front — but  then 

So  dwindling  at  the  tail ! — 
In  truth,  thou  hast  the  most  unequal  legs  ! 
Has  one  pair  gallopped,  whilst  the  other  trotted, 
Along  Avith  other  brethren,  leopard-spotted, 
O'er  Afric  sand,  where  ostriches  lay  eggs  ? 
Sure  thou  wert  causjht  in  some  hard  up-hill  chase, 
Those  hinder  heels  still  keeping  thee  in  check  ! 

And  yet  thou  seem'st  prepared  in  any  case, 

Tho"  they  had  lost  the  race, 
To  win  it  by  a  neck  ! 


That  lengthy  neck — how  like  a  crane's  it  looks  I 

Art  thou  the  overseer  of  all  the  brutes  ? 

Or  dost  thou  browse  on  tip-top  leaves  or  fruits — 

Or  go  a-birdnesting  among  the  rooks  ? 

How  kindly  nature  caters  for  all  wants  ; 

Thus  givincr  unto  thee  a  neck  that  stretches, 

And  high  food  fetches — 
To  some  a  long  nose,  like  the  elephant's  ! 


ODK    TO    THE    CAJIELOPARD. 


103 


Oh  !  Imdst  tliou  any  organ  to  tliy  bellows, 
To  turn  thy  breath  to  speech  in  human  style. 

What  secrets  thou  mightst  tell  us, 
Where  now  our  scientific  guesses  fail ; 

For  instance,  of  the  Nile, 
Whether  those  Seven  Mouths  have  any  tail — 

Mayhap  thy  luck  too. 
From  that  high  head,  as  from  a  lofty  hill, 
Has  let  thee  see  the  marvellous  Timbuctoo — 
Or  drink  of  Niger  at  its  infant  rill ; 
What  were  the  travels  of  our  Major  Denham, 

Or  Clapperton  to  thine 

In  that  same  line, 
If  thou  couldst  only  squat  thee  down  and  pen  'em  ! 

Strange  sights,  indeed,  thou  must  have  overlooked, 
With  eyes  held  ever  in  such  vantage-stations  ! 
Hast  seen,  perchance,  unhappy  white  folks  cooked, 
And  then  made  free  of  negro  corporations  ! 
Poor  wretches  saved  from  cast-away  thrce-deckers- 

By  sooty  wreckers — 
From  hungry  waves  to  have  a  loss  still  drearier, 
To  far  exceed  the  utmost  aim  of  Park  ! 
And  find  themselves,  alas  !  beyond  the  mark, 
In  the  insides  of  Africa's  Interior  ! 

Live  on,  Giraffe  1  genteelest  of  raff  kind  ! 
Admired  by  noble,  and  by  royal  tongues  ! 

May  no  pernicious  wind, 
Or  English  fog,  blight  thy  exotic  lungs  ! 
Live  on  in  happy  peace,  altho'  a  rarity. 
Nor  envy  thy  poor  cousin's  more  outrageous 

Parisian  popularity  ; —  »♦-• 

Whose  very  leopard-rash  is  grown  contagious, 


« 


104  ODE    TO    DR.  HAHXEMANN. 

And  worn  on  gloves  and  ribbons  all  about, 

Alas  !  the  J  "11  wear  him  out ! — 
So  thou  shalt  take  thj  sweet  diurnal  feeds — 
When  he  is  stuflfed  with  undigested  straw, 
Sad  food  that  never  visited  his  jaw  ! 
And  staring  round  him  with  a  brace  of  beads  ! 


ODE  TO  DR.  HAHNEMANN,  THE  HOMCEOPATHIST. 

Well,  Doctor, 
Great  concoctor 

Of  medicines  to  help  in  man's  distress ; 
Diluting  down  the  strong  to  meek. 
And  making  ev'n  the  weak  more  weak, 

"  Fine  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less" — 
Founder  of  a  new  system  economic. 
To  druggists  any  thing  but  comic  ; 

Framed  the  whole  race  of  Ollapods  to  fret, 

At  profits,  like  thy  doses,  very  small ; 

To  put  all  Doctors'  Boys  in  evil  case. 

Thrown  out  of  bread,  of  physic,  and  of  place — 

And  show  us  old  Apothecaries'  Hall 
"  To  Let." 

How  fare  thy  Patients  ?  are  they  dead  or  living, 
Or,  well  as  can  expected  be,  with  such 
A  style  of  practice,  liberally  giving 

"  A  sum  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much?" 

Dost  thou  preserv^e  the  human  frame,  or  turf  it  ? 

Do  thorough  draughts  cure  thorough  colds  or  not  ? 
Do  fevers  yield  to  any  thing  that 's  hot  ? 

Or  hearty  dinners  neutralize  a  surfeit  ? 


ODE    TO    DR.  HAHNEMANN.  105 

Is  "t  good  advicG  for  gastronomic  ills, 
When  Indigestion's  face  with  pain  is  crumpling, 
To  cry,  "  Discard  those  Peristaltic  Pills, 
Take  a  hard  dumpling?" 

Tell  me,  thou  German  Cousin, 
And  tell  me  honestly  without  a  diddle, 
Does  an  attenuated  dose  of  rosin 
Act  as  a  tonic  on  the  old  Scotch  fiddle? 
Tell  me,  when  Anhalt-Coethen  babies  wriggle, 

Like  eels  just  caught  by  sniggle, 
]SIdrtyrs  to  some  acidity  internal. 

That  gives  them  pangs  infernal. 
Meanwhile  the  lip  grows  black,  the  eye  enlarges ; 
Say,  comes  there  all  at  once  a  cherub-calm. 
Thanks  to  that  soothing  homoeopathic  balm. 
The  half  of  half,  of  half,  a  drop  of  '' vargesf 

Suppose,  for  instance,  upon  Leipzig's  plain, 
A  soldier  pillowed  on  a  heap  of  slain, 
In  urgent  Avant  both  of  a  priest  and  proctor  ; 
When  lo  !  there  comes  a  man  m  green  and  red, 
A  featherless  cocked-hat  adorns  his  head, 
In  short,  a  Saxon  military  doctor — 
Would  he,  indeed,  on  the  right  treatment  fix, 
To  cure  a  horrid  gaping  wound, 
Made  by  a  ball  that  weighed  a  pound, 
If  he  well  peppered  it  with  number  six  ? 

Suppose  a  felon  doomed  to  swing 

Within  a  rope^ 

Might  friends  not  hope 
To  cm'c  him  with  a  string? 


106  ODE    TO    DE.  HAHXEMAXX. 

Suppose  his  breath  arrived  at  a  full  stop, 
The  shades  of  death  in  a  black  cloud  before  him. 
Would  a  quintillionth  dose  of  the  Xew  Drop 
Restore  him  ? 

Fancy  a  man  gone  rabid  from  a  bite, 

Snapping  to  left  and  right, 
And  giving  tongue  like  one  of  Sebright's  hounds. 

Terrific  sounds, 
The  pallid  neighborhood  with  horror  cowing. 
To  hit  the  proper  homoeopathic  mark ; 
KoW;  might  not  ■•  the  last  taste  in  life"  o^hnrk^ 

Stop  his  bovj-wow-ing  ? 
Nay,  with  a  well-known  remedy  to  fit  him, 
"Would  he  not  mend,  if,  with  all  proper  care, 

He  took  ■■  a  hair 
Of  the  dog  that  bit  him?' 

Picture  a  man — we  "11  say  a  Dutch  Meinheer — 

In  evident  emotion. 
Bent  o'er  the  bulwark  of  the  Bata\aer, 

Owning  those  symptoms  queer — 
Some  feel  in  a  Sick  Trajisit  o'er  the  ocean, 
Can  any  thing  in  life  be  more  pathetic 
Than  when  he  turns  to  us  his  wretched  face  ? — 

But  would  it  mend  his  case 

To  be  decillionth-dosed 

With  something  like  the  ghost 
Of  an  emetic? 

Lo  !  now  a  darkened  room  ! 

Look  through  the  dreary  gloom, 
And  see  that  coverlet  of  wildest  form, 
Tost  like  the  billows  in  a  storm, 


ODE   TO    DR.  HAHNEMANN. 

Where  ever  and  anon,  witli  groans,  emerges 

A  ghastly  head  ! — 
While  U'O  impatient  arms  still  beat  the  bed, 
Like  a  strong  swimmcr^s  struggling  with  the  surges 
There  Life  and  Death  are  on  their  1)attle-plain, 
With  many  a  mortal  ecstasy  of  pain — 
What  shall  support  the  body  in  its  trial, 
Cool  the  hot  blood,  wild  dream,  and  parching  skin, 
And  tame  the  raging  Malady  withm— 
A  sniff  of  Next-to-Nothing  in  a  phial  ? 

Oh  !   Doctor  Hahnemann,  if  hero  I  laugh 

And  cry  together,  half  and  half. 
Excuse  me,  'tis  a  mood  the  subject  brings, 
To  think,  whilst  I  have  crowed  like  chanticleer, 
Perchance,  from  some  dull  eye  the  hopeless  tear 
Hath  gushed  with  my  light  levity  at  schism, 
To  mourn  some  Martyr  of  Empiricism : 
Perchance,  upon  thy  system,  I  have  given 
A  pang,  superfluous,  to  the  pains  of  Sorrow, 
Who  weeps  with  Memory  from  morn  till  even ; 
Where  comfort  there  is  none  to  lend  or  borrow. 

Sighing  to  one  sad  strain, 

"  She  will  not  come  again. 
To-morrow,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  to-morrow  !" 

Doctor,  forgive  me,  if  I  dare  prescribe 
A  rule  for  thee  thyself,  and  all  thy  tribe, 
Inserting  a  few  serious  words  by  stealth ; 

Above  all  price  of  wealth 
The  Bodys  Jewel— not  for  minds  profane, 
Or  hands,  to  tamper  with  in  practice  vain- 
Like  to  a  Wo?7ian's  Virtue  is  Mans  Health. 


107 


108  ODE   TO   DR.    HAHNEMANN. 

A  heavenly  gift  within  a  holy  shi^ine ! 
To  be  approached  and  touched  with  serious  fear ^ 
By  hands  Tnadepiwe^  and  hearts  of  faith  severe^ 
Ev^n  as  the  Priesthood  of  the  ONE  divine  ! 

But,  zounds  !  each  fellow  with  a  suit  of  black, 

And,  strange  to  fame, 

With  a  diploma' d  name. 
That  carries  two  more  letters  pick-a-back. 
With  cane,  and  snuffbox,  powdered  wig,  and  block. 
Invents  his  dose,  as  if  it  were  a  chrism, 
And  dares  to  treat  our  wondrous  mechanism 
Familiar  as  the  works  of  old  Dutch  clock ; 
Yet,  how  would  common  sense  esteem  the  man, 
Oh  how,  mj  unrelated  German  cousin, 
Who  having  some  such  time-keeper  on  trial, 
And  finding  it  too  fist,  enforced  the  dial. 
To  strike  upon  the  Homoeopathic  plan 

Of  fourteen  to  the  dozen  ? 

Take  my  advice,  'tis  given  without  a  fee. 

Drown,  drown  your  book  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep, 

Like  Prospero's,  beneath  the  briny  sea, 

For  spells  of  magic  have  all  gone  to  sleep  ! 

Leave  no  decillionth  fragment  of  your  works 

To  help  the  interest  of  quacking  Burkes ; 

Aid  not  in  murdering  even  widows'  mites — 

And  now  forgive  me  for  my  candid  zeal, 

I  had  not  said  so  much,  but  that  I  feel 

Should  you  take  ill  what  here  my  Muse  indites. 

An  Ode-ling  more  will  set  you  all  to  rights. 


ODE   FOR   ST.    CECILIA  S   EVE. 


109 


ODE  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  EVE.' 

"Look  out  for  sqnalis." — The  Pilot. 

0  COME,  dear  Barney  Isaacs,  come, 
Punch  for  one  night  can  spare  his  drum 

As  well  as  pipes  of  Pan  ! 
Forget  not,  Popkins,  your  bassoon. 
Nor,  Mister  Bray,  your  horn,  as  soon 

As  you  can  leave  the  Van ; 
Blind  Billy,  bring  your  violin  ; 
Miss  Crow,  you  're  great  in  Cherry  Ripe ! 
And  Chubb,  your  viol  must  drop  in 
Its  bass  to  Soger  Tommy's  pipe. 

Ye  butchers,  bring  your  bones  : 
An  organ  would  not  be  amiss ; 
If  grinding  Jim  has  spouted  his. 

Lend  your's,  good  Mister  Jones. 
Do,  hurdy-gurdy  Jenny — do 
Keep  sober  for  an  hour  or. two, 
Music's  charms  to  help  to  paint 
And,  Sandy  Gray,  if  you  should  not 
Your  bagpipes  bring — 0  tuneful  Scot ! 
Conceive  the  feelings  of  the  Saint ! 


Miss  Strummel  issues  an  in\4te. 

For  music,  and  turn-out  to  night 

In  honor  of  Cecilia's  session ; 

But  ere  you  go,  one  moment  stop, 

And  with  all  kindness  let  me  drop 

A  hint  to  you  and  your  profession. 

Imprimis  then  :  Pray  keep  within 

The  bounds  to  which  your  skill  was  bom : 


110  ODE    FOR    ST.    CECILIA'.]    EVE. 

Let  the  one-banded  let  alone  Troinbonej 
Don't — Rheumatiz  !  seize  the  violin, 

Or  Ashmy  snatch  the  horn  ! 

Don't  ever  to  such  rows  give  birth, 

As  if  jou  had  no  end  on  earth 

Except  to  "  wake  the  lyre ;" 

Don't  "  strike  the  harp,"  praj  never  do, 

Till  others  long  to  strike  it  too, 

Perpetual  harping's  apt  to  tire ; 

Oh  I  have  heard  such  flat-and-sharpers, 
I  *ve  blest  the  head 
Of  good  King  Ned, 

For  scragging  all  those  old  Welsh  Harpers  ! 

Pray,  never,  ere  each  tuneful  doing, 
Take  a  prodigious  deal  of  wooing ; 
And  then  sit  down  to  thrum  the  strain, 
As  if  you  'd  never  rise  again — 
The  least  Cecilia-like  of  things : 
Remember  that  the  Saint  lias  wings. 
I've  known  Miss  Stnimmel  pause  an  hour, 
Ere  she  could  "  Pluck  the  Fairest  Flower," 
Yet  without  hesitation,  she 
Plunged  next  into  the  '•  Deep,  Deep  Sea," 
And  when  on  the  keys  she  docs  begin. 
Such  awful  torments  soon  you  share, 
She  really  seems  like  Milton's  '•  Sin," 
Holding  the  keys  of — you  know  where  ! 

Never  tweak  people's  ears  so  toughly, 
That  urchin-like  they  can't  help  saying — 
' '  0  dear  !   0  dear — you  call  this  playing, 
But  oh,  it 's  playing  very  roughly  !" 
Oft,  in  the  ecstacy  of  pain, 


ODE  TOW  ST.  Cecilia's  eve.  Ill 

I  •  ve  cursed  :ill  instrumental  -svorkmcn, 
V'l'isbed  Broiulwood  Tliurtelled  iu  a  lane. 
And  Kirke  Whites  fate  to  every  Kirkman — 
I  real  1 J  once  delighted  spied 
"  Clementi  Collard'  in  Cheapside. 

Another  word — don't  be  surprised, 
Revered  and  ragged  street  Musicians, 
You  have  been  only  half-baptised, 
And  each  name  proper,  or  improper. 
Is  not  the  value  of  a  copper, 
Till  it  has  had  the  due  additions, 
Husky,  Rusky, 
Ninny,  Tinny, 
Hummel.  Bummel, 
Bowski.  AVowski, 
All  these  are  very  good  selectables ; 
But  none  of  your  plain  pudding-and-tames — 
Folks  that  are  called  the  hardest  names 
Are  music's  most  respectables. 
Ev'ry  woman,  ev'ry  man. 
Look  as  foreign  as  you  can, 
Don't  cut  your  hair,  or  wash  your  skin, 
]\Iake  ugly  faces  and  begin. 

Each  Dingy  Orpheus  gravely  hears, 
And  now  to  show  they  understand  it ! 
Miss  Crow  her  scrannel  throttle  clears, 
And  all  the  rest  prepare  to  band  it. 
Each  scraper  ripe  for  concertante, 
Rozins  the  hair  of  Rozinantc  : 
Then  all  sound  A,  if  they  know  which, 
That  they  may  join  like  birds  in  June  : 
Jack  Tar  alone  neglects  to  tunc, 
For  he  's  all  over  concert-pitch. 


112  ODE  roil  ST.  Cecilia's  eve. 

A  little  prelude  goes  before. 

Like  a  knock  and  ring  at  music's  door. 

Each  instrument  gives  in  its  name  ; 

Then  sitting  in 

They  all  begin 
To  play  a  musical  round  game. 
Scrapenberg,  as  the  eldest  hand, 
Leads  a  first  fiddle  to  the  band, 

A  second  follows  suit ; 
Anon  the  ace  of  Horns  comes  plump 
On  the  tYTO  fiddles  with  a  trump  ; 

Puffindorf  plays  a  flute. 
This  sort  of  musical  revoke. 
The  grave  bassoon  begins  to  smoke, 
And  in  rather  grumpy  kind 
Of  tone  begins  to  speak  its  mind  ; 
The  double  drum  is  next  to  mix, 
Playing  the  Devil  on  Two  Sticks — 

Clamor,  clamor, 

Hammer,  hammer, 
While  now  and  then  a  pipe  is  heard, 
Insisting  to  put  in  a  word 

"With  all  his  shrilly  best ; 
So  to  allow  the  little  minion 
Time  to  deliver  his  opinion, 
They  take  a  few  bars  rest. 

Well,  little  Pipe  begins — with  sole 
And  small  voice  going  thro'  the  hole, 

Beseeching. 

Preaching, 

Squealing, 

Appealing, 


ODE   FOR   ST.    CECILIA'S   EVE. 


113 


Now  as  high  as  he  can  go, 

Now  in  language  rather  low, 

And  having  done — begins  once  more, 

Verbatim  what  he  said  before. 

This  twiddling-twaddling  sets  on  fire 

All  the  old  instrumental  ire, 

And  fiddles,  for  explosion  ripe, 

Put  out  the  little  squeaker's  pipe  ; 

This  wakes  bass  viol — and  viol  for  that 

Seizing  on  innocent  little  E  flat, 

Shakes  it  like  terrier  shaking  a  rat — 

They  all  seem  miching  malico  ! 
To  judge  from  a  rumble  unawares, 
The  drum  has  had  a  pitch  down  stairs ; 
And  the  trumpet  rash. 
By  a  violent  crash, 
Seems  splitting  somebody's  calico ! 
The  viol  too  groans  in  deep  distress, 
As  if  he  suddenly  grew  sick ; 
And  one  rapid  fiddle  sets  ofi"  express — 

Hurrying, 

Scurrying, 

Spattering, 

Clattering, 
To  fetch  him  a  Doctor  of  Music. 
This  tumult  sets  the  Haut-boy  crying 
Beyond  the  Piano's  pacifying, 

The  cymbal 

Gets  nimble. 

Triangle 

Must  wrangle, 
The  band  is  becoming  most  martial  of  bands, 


114  ODE   TO    ST.  CECILIA  S   EYE. 

When  just  in  the  middle, 
A  quakerlj  fiddle, 
Proposes  a  general  shaking  of  hands ! 
Quaking, 
Shaking, 
Quivering, 
Shivering, 
Loner  bow — short  bovr — each  bo-^  drawing  : 

Some  like  filing — some  like  sawing ; 
At  last  these  agitations  cease, 
And  they  all  get 
The  flageolet, 
To  breathe  '•  a  piping  time  of  peace." 

Ah,  too  deceitful  charm. 
Like  lightning  before  death, 
For  Scrapenberg  to  rest  his  arm, 
And  Puffindorf  get  breath  ! 
Again  without  remorse  or  pity, 
They  play  "  The  Storming  of  a  City," 
Miss  S.  herself  composed  and  planned  it — 
When  lo  !  at  this  renewed  attack. 
Up  jumps  a  little  man  in  black — 
"  The  very  De-\nl  cannot  stand  it !" 

And  with  that, 

Snatching  hat, 

(Not  his  own.) 

Ofi"  is  flown, 

Thro'  the  door, 

In  his  black, 

To  come  back, 
Never,  never,  never,  more  ! 


ODE    TO    MADAME    HEXGLER. 

Oh  Music  !  praises  thou  hast  had, 
From  Drjden  and  from  Pope, 

For  thy  good  notes,  jet  none  I  hope, 
But  I.  e'er  praised  the  bad. 

Yet  are  not  saint  and  sinner  even  ? 

Miss  Strummel  on  Cecilia's  level  ? 

One  drew  an  anojel  dovrn  from  heaven ! 

The  other  scared  away  the  Devil ! 


115 


ODE  TO  MADAI^IE  HEXGLER, 

FIEEWORK-IIAKER    TO   VAUXH-Ui. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Hengler  ! — ^Madame — I  beg  pardon, 
Starry  Enchantress  of  the  Surrey  Garden ! 
Accept  an  Ode  not  meant  as  any  scoff — 
The  Bard  were  bold  indeed  at  thee  to  quiz, 
Whose  scj^uibs  are  far  more  popular  than  his ; 
"WTiose  works  are  much  more  certain  to  go  off. 

Great  is  thy  fame,  but  not  a  silent  fame  ; 
With  many  a  bang  the  public  ear  it  courts; 
And  yet  thy  arrogance  we  never  blame. 
But  take  thy  merits  from  thy  own  reports. 
Thou  hast  indeed  the  most  uidulgent  backers, 
We  make  no  doubtmg,  nlisbelie^^ng  comments, 
Even  in  thy  most  bounceable  of  moments  ; 
But  lend  our  ears  implicit  to  thy  crackers  ! — 
Strange  helps  to  thy  applause  too  arc  not  missing, 

Thy  Rockets  raise  thee, 

And  Serpents  praise  thee, 
As  none  beside  are  ever  praised — ^by  hissing ! 


116  ODE    TO    MADAME    HENGLEK. 

Mistress  of  Hydropyrics, 
Of  glittering  Pindarics,  Sapphics,  Lyrics, 
Professor  of  a  Fiery  Necromancy, 
Oddly  thou  charmest  the  politer  sorts 

With  midnight  sports. 
Partaking  very  much  of  flash  and  fancy  ! 

What  thoughts  had  shaken  all 
In  olden  time  at  thy  nocturnal  revels — 

Each  brimstone  ball 
They  would  have  deemed  an  eyeball  of  the  Devil's ! 
But  now  thy  flaming  Meteors  cause  no  fright ; 
A  modern  Hubert  to  the  royal  ear. 
Might  whisper  without  fear, 
"  My  Lord,  they  say  there  were  five  moons  to-night !" 
Nor  would  it  raise  one  superstitious  notion 
To  hear  the  whole  description  fairly  out : — 
"  One  fixed — which  t'other  four  whirled  round  about 
With  wond'rous  motion." 

Such  are  the  very  sights 
Thou  workest,  Queen  of  Eire,  on  earth  and  heaven, 
Between  the  hours  of  midnight  and  eleven, 
Turning  our  English  to  Arabian  Nights, 
With  blazitg  mounts,  and  founts,  and  scorching  dragons. 

Blue  stars  and  white, 

And  bloou-red  light. 
And  dazzling  YvTieels  fit  for  Enchanters"  wagons. 
Thrice  lucky  woman  !  doing  things  that  be 
With  other  folks  past  benefit  of  parson ; 
For  burning,  no  Burn's  Justice  falls  on  thee, 
Altho'  night  after  night  the  public  see 
Thy  Yauxhall  palaces  all  end  in  Ai'son ! 


ODE    TO    MADAME    HENGLER.  117 

Sure  thou  wast  never  born 
Like  old  Sir  Hugh,  with  water  in  thy  head, 

Nor  lectured  night  and  morn 
Of  sparks  and  flames  to  have  an  awful  dread, 
Allowed  by  a  prophetic  dam  and  sire 

To  plaj  with  fire. 
0  didst  thou  never,  in  those  days  gone  by. 
Go  carrying  about — no  schoolboy  prouder — 
Instead  of  waxen  doll  a  little  Guy ; 
Or  in  thy  pretty  pyrotechnic  vein, 
Up  the  parental  pigtail  lay  a  train. 

To  let  off  all  his  powder  ! 

Full  of  the  wildfire  of  thy  youth, 

Did'st  never  in  plain  truth, 
Plant  whizzing  Flowers  in  thy  mother's  pots, 
Turning  the  garden  into  powder  plots  ? 

Or  give  the  cook,  to  fright  her, 
Thy  paper  sausages  well  stuffed  with  nitre  ? 
Nay,  wert  thou  never  guilty,  now,  of  dropping 
A  lighted  cracker  by  thy  sister's  Dear, 

So  that  she  could  not  hear 

The  question  he  was  popping  ? 

Go  on,  Madame  !  Go  on — be  bright  and  busy 
While  hoaxed  Astronomers  look  up  and  stare 
From  tall  observatories,  dumb  and  dizzy, 
To  see  a  Squib  in  Cassiopeia's  Chair  ! 
A  Serpent  wriggling  into  Charles's  Wain  ! 
A  Roman  Candle  lighting  the  Great  Bear ! 
A  Rocket  tangled  in  Diana's  train, 
And  Crackers  stuck  in  Berenice's  Hair ! 


=q 


118  ODE   TO    MR.  MALTHUS. 

There  is  a  King  of  Fire — Thou  shouldst  be  Queen  ! 
Methinks  a  good  connection  might  come  from  it  • 
Could' st  thou  not  make  him,  in  the  garden  scene, 
Set  oiit  per  Rocket  and  return  per  Comet ; 

Then  give  him  a  hot  treat 
Of  Pjrotechnicals  to  sit  and  sup, 
Lord  !  liow  the  world  would  throng  to  see  him  eat, 
He  swallowing  fire,  while  thou  dost  throw  it  up  ! 

One  solitary  night — true  is  the  story, 
Watching  those  forms  that  Fancy  will  create 
Within  the  bright  confusion  of  the  grate, 
I  saAY  a  dazzling  countenance  of  glory  ! 

Oh  Dei  gratias ! 

That  fiery  facias 
'T  was  thine.  Enchantress  of  the  Sui'rey  Grove ; 

And  ever  since  that  night, 

In  dark  and  bright, 
Thy  face  is  registered  within  my  stove  ! 

Long  may  that  starry  brow  enjoy  its  rays 
May  no  untimely  blow  its  doom  forestall  ; 
But  when  old  age  prepares  the  friendly  pall, 
When  the  last  spark  of  all  thy  sparks  decays, 
Then  die  lamented  by  good  people  all. 

Like  Goldsmith's  Madam  Blaize  ! 


ODE  TO  MR.  :MALTHUS.* 

Mt  dear,  do  pull  the  bell, 
And  pull  it  well. 
And  send  those  noisy  children  all  up  stairs, 
Now  playing  here  like  bears — 


ODE   TO   MR.  MALTIIU; 


110 


You  George,  aiid  William,  go  into  tlie  grounds, 

Charles,  James,  and  Bob  ai-e  there — and  take  jour  string, 

Drive  horses,  or  fly  kites,  or  any  thing.         , 
You  "re  quite  enough  to  play  at  hare  and  hounds — 
You  little  May,  and  Caroline,  and  Poll, 

Take  each  your  doll, 
And  go,  my  dears,  into  the  two-back  pair, 
Your  sister  Margaret  "s  there — 
Harriet  and  Grace,  thank  God.  are  both  at  school, 
At  for  off  Ponty  Pool— 
I  want  to  read,  but  really  can't  go  on — 
Let  the  four  twins,  Mark,  Matthew.  Luke,  and  John, 
Go — to  their  nursery — go — I  never  can 
Enjoy  my  Malthus  among  such  a  clan  ! 


Oh  Mr.  Malthus,  I  agree 
Li  every  thing  I  read  with  thee  ! 
The  world's  too  full,  there  is  no  doubt, 
And  wants  a  deal  of  thinning  out — 
It's  plain — as  plain  as  Harrow's  Steeple — 
And  I  agree  with  some  thus  far, 
"VMio  say  the  Queen's  too  popular, 
That  is — she  has  too  many  people. 
There  are  too  many  of  all  trades. 
Too  many  bakers, 
Too  many  every-thing  makers, 
But  not  too  many  undertakers — 

Too  many  boys — 

Too  many  hobby-de-hoys — 

Too  many  girls,  men,  widows,  wives,  and  maids — 

There  is  a  dreadful  surplus  to  demolish. 

And  yet  some  Wrongheads. 

With  thick  not  loner  heads, 


120  ODE    TO   MR.    MALTHUS. 

Poor  metaphysicians ! 
Sign  petitions 
Capital  punishment  to  abolish  ; 
And  in  the  face  of  censuses,  such  vast  ones, 
New  hospitals  contrive, 
For  keeping  life  alive, 
Laying  first  stones,  the  dolts  !  instead  of  last  ones  !- 
Others,  again,  in  the  same  contrariety, 
Deem  that  of  all  Humane  Society 

They  really  deserve  thanks. 
Because  the  two  banks  of  the  Serpentine, 
By  their  design, 
Are  Saving  Banks. 
Oh  !  were  it  given  but  to  me  to  weed 
The  human  breed, 
And  root  out  here  and  there  some  cumbering  elf, 
I  think  I  could  so  through  it. 
And  really  do  it 
With  profit  to  the  world  and  to  myself — 
For  instance,  the  unkind  among  the  Editors, 
My  debtors,  those  I  mean  to  sav 
Who  cannot  or  who  will  not  pay, 

And  all  my  creditors, 
These,  for  my  own  sake,  I  'd  destroy ; 
But  for  the  world's,  and  every  one's, 
I  *d  hoe  up  Mrs.  G — "s  two  sons, 
And  ISIi-s.  B — 's  big  Kttle  boy. 
Called  only  by  herself  an  "only  joy." 
As  Mr.  L'ving's  chapel  "s  not  too  full, 
Himself  alone  I  'd  pull — 
But  for  the  peace  of  years  that  have  to  run, 
I  'd  make  the  Lord  ^Mayor's  a  perpetual  station, 
And  put  a  period  to  rotation. 


ODE   TO    MR.    MALTHUS. 

Bj  rooting  up  all  xVldermen  but  one — 
These  are  but  hints  -what  good  might  thus  be  done 
But  ah  !  I  fear  the  public  good 
Is  little  by  the  public  understood — 
For  instance — if  with  flint,  and  steel,  and  tinder, 
Great  Swing,  for  once  a  philanthropic  man, 
Proposed  to  throw  a  light  upon  thy  plan, 
No  doubt  some  busy  fool  would  hinder 
His  burninci;  all  the  Foundlino;  to  a  cinder. 

Or.  if  the  Lord  Mayor,  on  an  Easter  Monday, 

That  wine  and  bun-da}^. 
Proposed  to  poison  all  the  little  Blue-coats, 
Before  they  died  by  bit  or  sup, 
Some  meddling  Marplot  would  blow  up. 

Just  at  the  moment  critical. 

The  economy  political 
Of  saving  their  fi-esh  yellow  plush  and  new  coats. 


121 


Equally  "t  would  be  undone, 
Suppose  the  Bishop  of  London, 
On  that  great  day 
Li  June  or  May, 
When  all  the  lai-ge  small  family  of  charity, 

Brown,  black,  or  carrotty, 
Walk  in  their  dusty  parish  shoes, 
In  too,  too  many  two-and-twos, 
To  sing  together  till  they  scare  the  walls 

Of  old  St.  Paul's, 
Sitting  in  red,  grey,  green,  blue,  drab,  and  white, 
Some  say  a  gratifying  sight, 
Tho'  I  think  sad — ^but  that 's  a  schism — 
To  witness  so  much  pauperism — 
C 


122 


ODE   TO    ST.    SAYITHIN. 


Suppose,  I  say,  the  Bishop  then,  to  make 
In  this  poor  overcrowded  world  more  room, 

Proposed  to  shake 
Down  that  immense  extinguisher,  the  dome — 
Some  humane  Martin  in  the  charity  Gal-waj 

I  fear  would  come  and  interfere. 

Save  beadle,  brat,  and  overseer, 

To  walk  back  in  their  parish  shoes, 

In  too,  too  many  two-and-twos, 
Islington — Wapping — or  Pall  Mall  way ! 

Thus,  people  hatched  from  goose's  egg, 

Foolishly  think  a  pest  a  plague. 

And  in  its  face  their  doors  all  shut, 

On  hmges  oiled  with  cajeput — 

Drugging  themselves  with  drams  well  spiced  and  cloven, 

And  turning  pale  as  linen  rags 

At  hoisting  up  of  yellow  flags. 
While  you  and  I  are  crying  '•  Orange  Boven !" 
Why  should  we  let  precautions  so  absorb  us. 
Or  trouble  shipping  with  a  quarantine — 
When  if  I  understand  the  thing  you  mean, 
We  ought  to  import  the  Cholera  Morbus ! 


ODE  TO  ST.  SWITHm.* 

"The  rain  it  raineth  every  day." 

The  Dawn  is  overcast,  the  morning  lowers, 
On  ev'ry  window -frame  hang  beaded  damps 
Like  rows  of  small  illumination  lamps. 
To  celebrate  the  Jubilee  of  Showers  ! 


ODE   TO    ST.    SWITHIN.  123 

A  constant  sprinkle  patters  from  all  leaves, 
The  very  Dryads  are  not  dry,  but  soppers, 

And  from  the  Houses'  eaves 

Tumble  eaves-droppers. 

The  hundred  clerks  that  live  along  the  street, 
Bondsmen  to  mercantile  and  city  schemers. 
With  squashing,  sloshing,  and  galloshing  feet, 
Go  paddling,  paddling  through  the  wet,  like  steamers, 
Each  hurrying  to  earn  the  daily  stipend — 
Umbrellas  pass  of  every  shade  of  green, 
And  now  and  then  a  crimson  one  is  seen, 
Like  an  Umbrella  ripened. 

Over  the  way  a  wagon 
Stands  with  six  smoking  horses,  shrinking,  blinking, 

While  in  the  George  and  Dragon 
The  man  is  keeping  himself  dry — and  drinking  ! 
The  Butcher's  boy  skulks  underneath  his  tray. 

Hats  shine — shoes  don't — and  down  droop  collars, 
And  one  blue  Parasol  cries  all  the  way 

To  school,  in  company  with  four  small  scholars  ! 

Unhappy  is  the  man  to-day  who  rides, 
Making  his  journey  sloppier,  not  shorter ; 
Ay,  there  they  go,  a  dozen  of  outsides, 
Performing  on  "  a  Stage  with  real  water  !" 
A  dripping  Pauper  crawls  along  the  way, 

The  only  real  willing  out-of-doorer. 

And  says,  or  seems  to  say, 
"  Well,  I  am  poor  enough — but  here  's  a  jiourer  V 


The  scene  in  water  colors  thus  I  paint, 
Is  your  own  Festival,  you  Sloppy  Saint 


124  ODE   TO    ST.    SWITHIN. 

Mother  of  all  the  Family  of  Ramers  ! 

Saint  of  the  Soakers  ! 

Making  all  people  croakers, 
Like  frogs  in  swampy  marshes,  and  complainers  ! 
And  why  you  mizzle  forty  days  together, 
Giving  the  earth  your  water-soup  to  sup, 
I  marvel — Why  such  wet,  mysterious  weather  ? 

I  wish  you  'd  clear  it  up ! 

Why  cast  such  cruel  dampers 
On  pretty  Pic  Nics,  and  against  all  wishes 
Set  the  cold  ducks  a-swimming  in  the  hampers, 
And  volunteer,  unasked,  to  wash  the  dishes  ? 
Why  drive  the  Nymphs  from  the  selected  spot, 

To  cling  like  lady-l)irds  around  a  tree — 

Why  spoil  a  Gipsy  party  at  their  tea, 
By  throwing  your  cold  water  upon  hot  ? 

Cannot  a  rural  maiden,  or  a  man, 

Seek  Hornsey-Wood  by  in\atation.  sipping 

Their  green  with  Pan, 
But  souse  you  come,  and  show  their  Pan  all  dripping ! 
Why  upon  snow-white  table-cloths  and  sheets, 
That  do  not  wait  or  want  a  second  washincr, 

Come  squashing  ? 
Why  task  yourself  to  lay  the  dust  in  streets, 
As  if  there  were  no  Water- Cart  contractors. 
No  pot-boys  spilling  beer,  no  shop-boys  ruddy 

Spooning  out  puddles  muddy, 
Milkmaids,  and  other  slopping  benefactors  ! 

A  Queen  you  are,  raining  in  your  own  right, 
Yet  oh !   how  little  flattered  by  report ! 

Even  by  those  that  seek  the  Court, 
Pelted  with  every  term  of  spleen  and  spite. 


ODE   FOR   THE   NINTH    OF   NOVEMBER. 


125 


Folks  rail  and  swear  at  jou  in  every  place ; 
They  say  you  are  a  creature  of  no  bowel ; 
They  say  you  're  always  washing  Nature's  face, 
And  that  you  then  supply  her 

With  nothing  drier 
Than  some  old  Avringing  cloud  by  way  of  towel  ! 
The  whole  town  wants  you  ducked,  just  as  you  duck  it, 
They  wish  you  on  your  own  mud  porridge  suppered, 
They  hope  that  you  may  kick  your  own  big  bucket, 
Or  in  your  water-butt  go  souse  !  heels  up'ard ! 
They  are,  in  short,  so  weary  of  your  drizzle. 
They  'd  spill  the  water  in  your  veins  to  stop  it — 
Be  warned  !  You  are  too  partial  to  a  mizzle — 

Pray  drop  it ! 


ODE  FOR  THE  NINTH  OF  NOVEMBER." 


0  LuD  !  0  Lud  !  0  Lud  ! 
I  mean,  of  course,  that  venerable  town 
Mentioned  in  stories  of  renown, 

Built  formerly  of  mud ; — 
0  Lud,  I  say,  why  didst  thou  e'er 

Invent  the  office  of  a  jMayor, 
An  office  that  no  useful  purpose  crowns, 
But  to  set  Aldermen  against  each  other, 
That  should  be  Brother  unto  Brother — 
Sisters  at  least,  by  virtue  of  their  gowns  ? 

But  still  if  one  must  have  a  Mayor 
To  fill  the  Civic  chair, 
0  Lud,  I  say, 
Was  there  no  better  day 


126       ODE  FOE  THE  XIXTH  OF  NOVEMBER. 

To  fix  on,  than  Xorember  Ninth  so  shivery 
And  dull  for  showing  off  the  Livery's  livery? 
Dimming,  alas  ! 
The  Brazier's  brass, 
Soiling  th'  Embroiderers  and  all  the  Saddlers, 
Sopping  the  Furriers, 
Draggling  the  Curriers. 
And  making  Merchant  Tailors  dirty  paddlers ; 
Drenching  the  Skinners'  Company  to  the  skin, 
Making  the  crusty  Yintner  chiller, 
And  turning  the  Distiller 
To  cold  without  instead  of  warm  within ; — 
Spoiling  the  bran-new  beavers 
Of  Wax-chandlers  and  Weavers, 

Plastering  the  Plasterers  and  spotting  Mercers, 
Hearty  Kovember-cursers — 
And  showing  Cordwainers  and  dapper  Drapers 
Sadly  in  want  of  brushes  and  of  scrapers  ; 
Making  the  Grocer's  company  not  fit 

For  company  a  bit ; 

Dying  the  Dyers  with  a  dingy  flood. 

Daubing  incorporated  Bakers, 

And  leading  the  Patten-makers, 

Over  their  very  pattens  in  the  mud — 

0  Lud  !  0  Lud  !  0  Lud  ! 

"  This  is  a  sorry  sight," 
To  quote  oNIacbeth — but  oh,  it  grieves  me  quite, 
To  see  your  Wives  and  Daughters  in  their  plumes — 

White  plumes  not  white — 
Sitting  at  open  windows  catching  rheums, 

Not  "  Angels  ever  bricrht  and  fair," 

But  angels  ever  brown  and  sallow, 


ODE    FOR   THE    NIXTU    OF    NOVEMBER.  1-T 

Ys'itli  eyes — you  cannot  see  above  one  pair, 

For  city  clouds  of  black  and  yellow — 
And  artificial  flowers,  rose,  leaf,  and  bud, 

Such  sable  lilies 

And  grim  daffodilies 
Drooping,  but  not  for  di'ougbt,  0  Lud  !   0  Lud  ! 

I  may  as  well,  while  I  "m  inclined, 
Just  go  through  all  the  faults  I  find : 

Oh  Lud !  then,  with  a  better  air,  say  June, 
Could"  st  thou  not  find  a  better  tunc 
To  sound  with  trumpets,  and  Avith  drums, 
Than  "  See  the  Conquermg  Hero  comes," 

"NYhen  he  who  comes  ne'er  dealt  in  blood  ? 
Thy  May'r  is  not  a  War  Horse.  Lud, 
That  ever  charged  on  Turk  or  Tartar, 
And  yet  upon  a  march  you  strike 
That  treats  him  like — 
A  little  French  if  I  may  martyr — 
Lewis  Cart-Horse  or  Henry  Carter  ! 

0  Lud  !  I  say 

Do  change  your  day 

To  Eoinc  time  when  your  Show  can  really  show ; 

When  silk  can  seem  like  silk,  and  gold  can  glow. 
Look  at  your  Sweepers,  how  they  shine  in  May  ! 
Have  it  when  there 's  a  sun  to  gild  the  coach, 
And  sparkle  in  tiara — bracelet — brooch — 

Diamond — or  paste — of  sister,  mother,  daughter  ; 
Vrhcn  grandeur  really  may  be  grand — 
But  if  thy  Pageant's  thus  obscured  liy  land — 

0  Lud  !  it 's  ten  times  worse  upon  tlic  water  ! 
Suppose,  0  Lud,  to  show  its  plan, 
I  call,  like  Blue  Beard's  wife,  to  sister  Anne, 


123  ODE    FOR    THE    XINTII    OF    I;^OYEMBER. 

Vrho  "s  gone  to  Beaufort  "Wharf  with  niece  and  aunt. 
To  see  what  she  can  see — and  what  she  can't ; 
Chewing  a  saiFron  bun  bj  way  of  cud, 
To  keep  the  fog  out  of  a  tender  lung, 
While  perched  in  a  verandah  nicely  hung 
Over  a  margin  of  thy  own  black  mud, 
0  Lud  ! 

Now  Sister  Amie,  I  call  to  thee. 
Look  out  and  see : 
Of  course  about  the  bridge  you  view  them  rally 

And  sally, 
"With  many  a  wherry,  sculler,  punt,  and  cutter ; 
The  Fishmongers'  grand  boat,  but  not  for  butter, 

The  Goldsmiths'  glorious  galley — • 
Of  course  you  see  the  Lord  Mayor's  coach  aquatic, 
With  silken  banners  that  the  breezes  fan, 
In  gold  all  glowing, 
And  men  in  scarlet  rowing, 
Like  Doge  of  Venice  to  the  Adriatic ; 
Of  course  you  see  all  this,  0  Sister  Anne  ? 
'•  No,  I  see  no  such  thing  ! 
I  only  see  the  edge  of  Beaufort  "Wharf, 
With  two  coal  lighters  fastened  to  a  ring ; 

And,  dim  as  ghosts, 
Two  little  boys  are  jumping  over  posts ; 

ilnd  something,  farther  off, 
That 's  rather  like  the  shadow  of  a  dog, 

And  all  beyond  is  fog. 
If  there  bo  any  thing  so  fine  and  bright. 
To  see  it  I  must  sec  by  second  sight. 
Call  this  a  Show  ?     It  is  not  worth  a  pin  ! 
I  see  no  barges  row, 
No  banners  blow ; 


ODE   FOR   THE    NIXTII    OF   NOVEMBER.  129 

The  Show  is  merely  a  gallanty-show, 
Without  a  lamp  or  any  candle  in." 

But  sister  Anne,  my  dear, 
Although  you  cannot  see,  you  still  may  hear  ? 
Of  course  you  hear,  I  'm  very  sure  of  that, 
The  ''■'  Water  parted  from  the  Sea"  in  C, 
Or  '•  "V\Tiere  the  Bee  sucks,"  set  in  B ; 
Or  Huntsman's  chorus  from  the  Freyschutz  frightful, 
Or  Handel's  Water  Music  in  A  flat. 
Oh  music  from  the  water  comes  delightful ! 
It  sounds  as  no  where  else  it  can  : 
You  hear  it  first 
In  some  rich  burst, 
Then  faintly  sighing, 
Tenderly  dying. 
Away  upon  the  breezes.  Sister  Anne. 

"  There  is  no  breeze  to  die  on ; 
And  all  their  drums  and  trumpeta,  flutes  and  harps, 
Could  never  cut  their  way  with  ev'n  thrt  3  sharps 

Through  such  a  fog  as  this,  you  may  rely  on. 
I  think,  but  am  not  sure,  I  hear  a  hum, 

Like  a  very  muffled  double  di'um. 

And  then  a  something  faintly  shrill, 

Like  Bartlemy  Fau-'s  old  buz  at  Pentonville. 

And  now  and  then  hear  a  pop. 

As  if  from  Pedley's  Soda  Water  shop. 
I  'm  almost  ill  with  the  strong  scent  of  mud, 

And.  not  to  mention  sneezing, 

My  cough  is,  more  than  usual,  teasing ; 
I  really  fear  that  I  have  chilled  my  blood, 
0  Lud  !  0  Lud  !  0  Lud  !  0  Lud  !  0  Lud !" 

6* 


NOTES. 


(1.)     Ode  to  M.  Brunel. 

Mr.  Brunel  was  an  engineer  who  had  been  very  successful  in  contriv- 
ing the  machinery  for  the  manufacture  of  blocks  for  the  Royal  Navy, 
at  Portsmouth  ;  and  in  the  bubble-time  of  1825,  or  thereabouts,  got  up 
a  company  for  tunnelling  the  Thames.  The  plan  was  ingeniously  de- 
vised, and  in  the  course  of  some  ten  years  was  executed.  It  was  a  very 
expensive  operation,  however,  and  as  a  speculation  an  entire  failure. 
At  one  time  during  the  progress  of  the  work,  the  water  found  its  way 
through  an  unexpected  breach  in  the  bottom  of  the  river,  when  Brunei 
the  younger  (now  an  eminent  engineer)  barely  escaped  with  his  life. 
He  owed  his  safety  entirely  to  his  great  skill  in  swimming. 


(2.)     Ode  to  the  Advocates  for  the  Removal  of  Smithfield 
Market. 

Smithfield  was  made  the  seat  of  the  sole  cattle  market  for  the  city 
of  London  by  Edward  III.  in  the  year  1327,  and  has  remained  such  till 
the  present  day.  The  market  is  an  open  area,  in  the  form  of  an  irregu- 
lar polygon  ;  containing  only  about  three  and  a  half  acres,  for  the  accom- 
modation of  the  largest  city  in  the  world,  in  its  supplies  of  sheep,  horses, 
cattle  and  hay.  An  attempt  was  made  some  years  ago  to  I'emove  it  to 
the  outskirts  of  London,  but  it  cost  the  opulent  projector  an  hundred 
thousand  pounds,  and  failed.  The  city  itself  was  foiled  in  two  efforts 
to  make  the  removal — one  of  which  probably  inspired  the  ode  above 
entitled.  The  annual  cattle  show  of  the  Smithfield  Club  is  still  held, 
and  the  horse  market  still  enjoys  the  same  reputation  as  in  Shak- 
speare's  time,  and  for  centuries  before. 

Smithfield  is  famous  in  history  for  its  jousts,  tournaments,  executions 


134  NOTES. 

and  burnings.  Here  Wallace  and  Mortimer  were  executed,  and  Wat 
Tyler  was  slain. 

Smithfield  was  the  seat  of  the  long-famous  Bartholomew  Fair,  which 
was  proclaimed  by  the  Lord  Mayor  annually  on  the  3d  of  September, 
unless  the  3d  fell  on  Sunday,  and  continued  for  three  days,  exclusive  of 
the  day  of  proclamation.  In  Ben  Jonson's  celebrated  play  of  that 
name,  there  is  a  picture  of  what  Bartholomew  Fair  was  in  1614  ;  and 
in  Hone's  Every-Day  Book  we  have  a  very  detailed  report  of  the 
editor's  personal  observation  of  the  same  scene  in  1825.  It  had  its 
origin  in  a  grant  of  King  Henry  II.  to  the  Priory  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
which  had  teen  founded  in  Smithfield,  in  connection  with  a  church  and 
hospital,  about  the  year  1102,  by  one  Rahere,  a  minstrel  of  the  King, 
and  a  "  pleasant-witted  gentleman,"  who  was  the  first  Prior  of  his 
monastery. 

The  royal  privilege  extended  to  three  days  at  the  Bartholomew-tide 
for  a  fair,  "  to  the  which,"  says  Stow,  '•'  the  clothiers  of  England  and 
the  drapers  of  London  repaired,  and  had  their  bootlis  and  standings 
within  the  churchyard  of  this  priory,  closed  in  with  walls  and  gates 
locked  every  night,  and  watched  for  safety  of  men's  goods  and  wares  ; 
a  Court  of  Piepowders  was  daily  during  the  fair  holden  for  debts  and 
contracts."  This  was  the  origin  of  this  famous  fair,  over  which  the 
charter  of  Henry  H.  gave  the  Mayor  and  Aldermen  criminal  jurisdic- 
tion during  its  continuance. 

All  sorts  of  cheap  shows  and  entertainments,  dramatic,  pictorial  and 
zoological — dwarfs,  fat  boys  and  giants — learned  pigs  and  horses — ^lions 
and  elephants — feats  of  skill,  strength  and  dexterity  —jugglers  and 
music-grinders — Punch  and  Judy — mermaids  and  wild  Indians — ^beau- 
tiful dolphins  and  cannibal  chiefs — harlequins  and  circus-riders — have 
for  hundreds  of  years  entertained  our  Anglo-Saxon  brethren  at  Bartho- 
lomew Fair.  Before  the  commencement  of  the  last  century  it  had 
l:>ecome,  however,  a  nuisance,  and  of  late  years  it  is  described  as  a  mere 
scene  of  annual  debauchery. 

(3.)     Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Eve  (Xov.  22). 

Saint  Cecilia  is  in  the  Church  of  England  calendar  and  in  the  alma- 
nacs. She  is  a  saint  of  the  Eomish  Church,  and  a  patroness  of  church 
music.  Butler  gives  her  life,  from  which  we  learn  that  she  was  mar- 
ried to  a  nobleman  named  Valerian,  whom,  with  her  brother  Tibertius, 
she  converted,  and  with  them  she  was  martyred.     Various  legends  and 


NOTES. 


135 


pictures  represent  her  as  engaged  in  music,  or  listening  to  it  from  celes- 
tial performei-s.  Hence  the  conclusion  of  the  celebrated  ode  of  Drydeu 
(who  was  a  Catholic) — 

"  She  drew  an  Angel  down." 
The  legend  is  that  her  husband,  allured  bj  the  harmonious  sounds, 
entered  a  room  where  she  was  sitting,  and  found  a  young  man  playing 
on  the  organ.    Cecilia  introduced  the  visitor  as  an  angel,  and  from  that 
time  she  received  ■•  anarels'  visits." 


(4.)     Ode  to  Mr.  M.axthcs. 

ilr.  Malthus  was  distinguished  for  the  development  of  two  new  dis- 
coveries in  Political  Economy,  those  relating  to  population  and  rent. 
He  published  his  Essay  on  Population  in  1803,  and  his  Principles  of 
Political  Economy  in  1820.  His  favorite  theory  on  population  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  formula  that  the  prudential  restraint  upon  marriage, 
fi'om  the  fear  of  a  family,  is  the  most  powerful  check  which  in  modern 
Europe  "  keeps  down  the  population  to  the  level  of  the  means  of  sub- 
sistence."' In  other  words,  it  is  thus  expressed  by  the  Edinburgh 
Revieiv — "  A  man  has  no  more  right  to  set  up  a  wife,  unless  he  can 
afford  it,  than  to  set  up  a  coach." 

(5.)     Ode  to  St.  Swithix. 

Swithin  is  stiU  retained  in  the  English  almanacs,  and  his  day  (July 
15)  at  some  public  offices  is  a  holiday.  The  saint  was  of  noble  parent- 
age, and  became  a  monk  in  the  old  monastery  at  Winchester,  of  which 
he  was  afterwards  priest  and  provost,  and  finally  bishop,  by  the  favor 
of  his  sometime  jiupil.  King  Ethelwolf,  in  852.  It  was  through  his 
influence  that  tithes  were  established  in  England.  He  died  in  862.  An 
hundred  years  afterwards  marvellous  cures  were  wrought  by  his  relics. 

There  is  an  old  adage — "  If  it  rain  on  St.  Swithin's  day,  there  will 
be  rain  the  next  forty  days  afterwards."  The  tradition  is,  that  the 
bishop  desired  to  be  buried  in  the  open  churchyard,  and  not  in  the 
chancel  of  the  minster,  and  his  request  was  complied  with  ;  but  the 
monks,  on  his  being  canonized  by  the  Pope,  thought  it  would  not  an- 
swer for  a  saint  to  lie  in  the  open  air,  and  resolved  to  remove  the  body 
into  the  choir,  which  was  to  have  been  done  on  the  15th  of  July.  It 
rained  so  hard,  however,  on  that  day,  and  for  forty  days  succeeding, 
that  they  abandonal  their  design  as  heretical,  and  erected  a  chapel  over 
his  firravc. 


136  NOTES. 

Rain  on  St.  Swithin's  day  is  noticed  in  some  places  by  the  saying— 
"  St.  Swithin  is  cliristeniug  tlie  apples." 

Ben  Jonson,  Gay,  Churchill,  and  other  English  poets,  allude  to  the 
popular  tradition  connected  with  St.  Swithin. 

In  Poor  Robin's  Almanac  for  1697,  the  saying  and  one  of  the  mkacles 
ascribed  to  the  saint  are  thus  alluded  to  : — 

"  In  this  month  is  St.  Swithin's  day; 
On  which,  if  that  it  rain,  they  say 
Full  forty  days  after  it  will. 
Or  more  or  less,  some  rain  distil. 
This  Swithin  was  a  saint,  I  trow, 
And  Winchester's  bishop  also; 
Who  in  his  time  did  many  a  feat, 
As  Popish  legends  do  repeat : 
A  woman  having  broke  her  eggs, 
By  stumbling  at  another's  legs, 
For  which  she  made  a,  woful  cry ; 
St.  Swithin  chanced  for  to  come  by, 
Who  made  them  all  as  sound,  or  more, 
Than  that  they  ever  were  before. 
But  whether  they  were  so  or  no, 
'Tis  more  than  you  or  I  do  know. 
Better  it  is  to  rise  betime, 
And  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine. 
Than  to  believe  in  tales  and  lies. 
Which  idle  monks  and  friars  devise." 

(6.)     Ode  for  the  Ninth  of  November — Lord  ^Iayor's  Day. 

On  this  day  there  is  a  procession  of  the  Mayor  and  Aldermen  elect 
of  London,  from  Guildhall  to  Westminster,  to  be  sworn,  and  thence  back 
to  Guildhall  to  diuuer.  In  old  times  it  was  an  occasion  of  great  splen- 
dor and  pageantry.  On  Sir  Thomas  Middleton's  mayoralty,  in  1G13, 
the  solemnity  is  described  as  unparalleled  for  the  art  and  magnificence 
of  its  pageantry  and  shows.  The  printed  descriptions  of  these  London 
Pageants,  or  Triumphs  of  the  old  time,  are  now  extremely  rare,  and  are 
sold  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  guineas  for  a  single  leaf. 

In  1575,  William  Smythe,  citizen  and  haberdasher  of  London,  ^vrote 
a  "  breffe  description"  of  that  royal  city,  Avhich  gives  us  an  account  of 
the  ceremonies  on  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  in  early  times.  "  The  day  of 
St.  Simon  and  St.  Jude,"  he  says,  "  the  Mayor  enters  into  his  state  and 
ofiBce.  The  next  day  he  goes  by  water  to  Westminster  in  most  triumph- 
ant-like manner,  his  barge  being  garnished  with  the  arms  of  the  city ; 
and  near  it  a  ship-boat  of  the  Queen's  Majesty,  being  trimmed  up  and 


NOTES. 


137 


rigged  like  a  ship  of  war,  with  clivers  pieces  of  ordnance,  standards, 
pennons,  and  targets  of  the  proper  arms  of  the  said  Mayor,  of  his  com- 
pany, and  of  the  merchants'  adventurei*s,  or  of  the  staple,  or  of  the  com- 
pany of  the  new  trades  ;  next  before  him  goeth  the  barge  of  the  livery 
of  his  own  company,  decked  with  their  own  proper  arms ;  then  the 
bachelors'  barge  ;  and  so  all  the  companies  in  London,  in  order,  every 
one  ha-\-ing  their  own  proper  barge,  with  the  arms  of  their  company. 
And  so  passing  along  the  Thames  he  landeth  at  Westminster,  where  he 
taketh  his  oath  in  the  Exchequer  before  the  Judge  there  ;  which  done, 
he  returneth  by  water  as  aforesaid,  and  landeth  at  Paul's  wharf,  where 
he  and  the  rest  of  the  Aldermen  take  their  horses,  and  in  great  pomp 

pass  through the  city  to  the  Guildhall,  where  they  dine  that 

day  to  the  number  of  1,000  persons,  all  at  the  charge  of  the  Mayor 
and  the  two  Sheriff.  The  feast  costeth  £400,  whereof  the  Mayor  payeth 
£200,  and  each  of  the  Sheriffs  £100." 

In  the  procession  were  some  sixty  or  seventy  poor  men  marching 
two  and  two,  iu  blue  gowns,  with  red  sleeves  and  caps,  every  one  bear- 
ing a  pike  and  target,  on  which  were  painted  the  arms  of  all  them  that 
had  been  Mayors  of  the  same  company  that  the  new  Mayor  was  of. 

"Immediately  after  dinner  they  go  to  St.  Paul's  Church,  every  one 
of  the  aforesaid  poor  men  bearing  staff,  torches  and  targets,  which 
torches  are  lighted  when  it  is  late,  before  they  come  from  evening 
prayer." 

In  1655,  the  city  pageants,  after  a  discontinuance  of  about  fifteen 
years,  were  revived  ;  and  Edward  Gayton,  the  author  of  the  description 
for  that  year,  says,  that  '■  our  metropolis  for  these  planetary  pageants 
was  as  famous  and  renowned  in  foreign  nations  as  for  faith,  wealth,  and 
valor."  On  Lord  Mayor's  day,  1671,  the  King,  Queen,  Duke  of  York, 
and  most  of  the  nobUity,  being  present,  there  were  "  sundry  shows, 
shapes,  scenes,  speeches,  and  son^  in  parts  ;"  and  the  like  iu  1672  and 
1673,  when  the  King  again  '•  graced  the  triumphs."  Again,  the  great 
persons  of  the  realm  were  present  in  1674,  when  there  were  "  emblema- 
tical figures,  artful  pieces  of  architecture,  and  rural  dancing,  with  pieces 
spoken  in  each  pageant." 

The  speeches  in  the  pageants  were  usually  composed  by  the  official 
city  poet,  who  also  provided  a  printed  programme  for  the  members  of 
the  corporation.  Settle  was  the  last  corporation  poet,  and  wrote  the 
last  programme,  intended  for  the  show  of  1708,  which  was  prevented 
by  the  death  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark. 


138  NOTES. 

The  modern  exhibitions  on  Lord  Mayor's  day  do  not  vie  with  those 
of  the  olden  time.  All  that  remains  of  the  antique  show  is  in  the  first 
part  of  the  procession,  where  the  poor  men  of  the  company  to  which 
the  Lord  Mayor  belongs,  or  persons  hired  to  represent  them,  are  habited 
in  long  gowns  and  close  caps  of  the  company's  color,  and  bear  painted 
shields  on  their  arms,  but  without  javelins.  So  many  of  these  head 
the  show  as  there  are  years  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  age.  "  Their  obsolete 
costume  and  hobbling  walk,"  says  the  author  of  the  Every-Day  Book, 
"  are  sport  for  the  unsedate,  who,  from  improper  tradition,  year  after 
year,  are  accustomed  to  call  them  '  old  bachelors' — tongues  less  polite 
call  them  '  old  fogeys.'  The  numerous  band  of  gentlemen-ushers,  in 
A'elvet  coats,  wearing  chains  of  gold,  and  bearing  white  staves,  is  re- 
duced to  half  a  dozen  full-dressed  footmen,  carrying  umbrellas  in  their 
hands." 


*cs^ 


TALES  AND   LEGENDS, 


THE  STAG-EYED  LADY. 


A  MOORISH  TALE. 
Scheherazade  immediately  began  the  following  story. 

Ali  Ben  Ali  (did  you  never  read 

His  wondrous  acts  that  chronicles  relate — 

How  there  was  one  in  pity  might  exceed 
The  sack  of  Troy  ?)     Magnificent  he  sate 

Upon  the  throne  of  greatness — great  indeed, 
For  those  that  he  had  under  him  were  great — 

The  horse  he  rode  on,  shod  with  silver  nails, 

Was  a  Bashaw — Bashaws  have  horses'  tails. 

Ali  was  cruel — a  most  cruel  one  ! 

'Tis  rumored  he  had  strangled  his  own  mother — 
Howbeit  such  deeds  of  darkness  he  had  done, 

'Tis  thought  he  would  have  slain  his  elder  brother 
And  sister  too — but  happily  that  none 

Did  live  within  A«rw's  length  of  one  another, 
Else  he  had  sent  the  Sun  in  all  its  blaze 
To  endless  night,  and  shortened  the  Moon's  days. 

Despotic  power,  that  mars  a  weak  man's  wit. 

And  makes  a  bad  man — absolutely  bad, 
Made  Ali  wicked — to  a  fault: — 'tis  fit 

Monarchs  should  have  some  check-strings ;  but  he  had 


142  THE    STAG-EYED    LADY. 

No  curb  upon  his  will — no,  not  a  hit — 

AVherefore  he  did  not  reign  well — and  full  glad 
His  slaves  had  been  to  hang  him — but  they  faltered, 
And  let  him  live  unhanged — and  still  unaltered. 

Until  he  mi  a  sage  bush  of  a  beard. 

"WTierein  an  Attic  owl  might  roost — a  trail 
Of  bristly  hair — that,  honored  and  unsheared 

Grew  downward  like  old  women  and  cow "s  tail : 
Being  a  sign  of  age — some  gray  appeared, 

iMingling  with  duskier  brown  its  warnings  pale ; 
But  yet  not  so  poetic  as  when  Time 
Comes  like  Jack  Frost,  and  whitens  it  in  rime. 

Ben  Ali  took  the  hint,  and  much  did  vex 

His  royal  bosom  that  he  had  no  son, 
No  li^dng  child  of  the  more  noble  sex, 

To  stand  in  his  Morocco  shoes — not  one 
To  make  a  negro-pollard — or  tread  necks 

When  he  was  gone — doomed,  when  his  days  were  done, 
To  leave  the  very  city  of  his  fame 
Without  an  Ali  to  keep  up  his  name. 

Therefore  he  chose  a  lady  for  his  love. 

Singling  from  out  the  herd  one  stag -eyed  dear; 

So  called,  because  her  lustrous  eyes,  above 
All  eyes,  were  dark,  and  timorous,  and  clear : 

Then,  through  his  Muftis  piously  he  strove. 

And  di'ummed  with  proxy-prayers  Mohammed's  ear. 

Knowing  a  boy  for  certain  must  come  of  it, 

Or  else  he  was  not  praying  to  his  Profit. 

Beer  will  grow  mothery^  and  ladies  fair 

"Will  grow  like  beer ;  so  did  that  stag-eyed  dame : 


THE   STAG-EYED    LADY.  143 

Ben  Ali,  hoping  for  a  son  and  heir, 

Boyed  up  his  hopes,  and  even  chose  a  name 

Of  mighty  hero  that  his  child  should  bear ; 
He  made  so  certain  ere  his  chicken  came  : 

But  oh  !  all  worldly  wit  is  little  worth, 

Nor  knoweth  what  to-morrow  will  bring  forth. 

To-morrow  came,  and  with  to-morrow's  sun 

A  little  daughter  to  this  world  of  sins ; 
il/is5-fortunes  never  come  alone — so  one 

Brought  on  another,  like  a  pair  of  twins : 
Twins  !  female  twins  ! — it  was  enough  to  stun 

Their  little  wits  and  scare  them  from  their  skins, 
To  hear  their  father  stamp,  and  curse  and  swear, 
Pulling  his  beard  because  he  had  no  heir. 

Then  strove  their  stag-eyed  mother  to  calm  down 
This  his  paternal  rage,  and  thus  addrest : 

Oh  !  Most  Serene  !  Avhy  dost  thou  stamp  and  frown. 
And  box  the  compass  of  thy  royal  chest  ? 

Ah  !  thou  wilt  mar  that  portly  trunk,  I  own 
I  love  to  gaze  on  ! — Pr'ythee,  thou  hadst  best 

Pocket  thy  fists.     Nay,  love,  if  you  so  thin 

Your  beard,  you  '11  want  a  wig  ixpon  your  chin ! 

But  not  her  words,  or  e'en  her  tears,  could  slack 
The  quicklime  of  his  rage,  that  hotter  grew : 

He  called  his  slaves  to  bring  an  ample  sack 
Wherein  a  woman  might  be  poked — a  few 

Dark  grimly  men  felt  pity  and  looked  black 
At  this  sad  order;  but  their  slaveships  knew 

V>Tien  any  dared  demur,  his  sword  so  bending 

Cut  off  the  '-'head  and  front  of  their  offendinff." 


144  THE    STAG-EYED    LADY. 

For  Ali  had  a  sword,  much  like  himself, 
A  crooked  blade,  guilty  of  human  gore — 

The  trophies  it  had  lopped  from  many  an  elf 
Were  stuck  at  his  ^ea^-c^uarters  by  the  score — 

Nor  yet  in  peace  he  laid  it  on  the  shelf, 
But  jested  with  it,  and  his  wit  cut  sore ; 

So  that  (as  they  of  Public  Houses  speak) 

He  often  did  his  dozen  butts  a  week. 

Therefore  his  slaves,  with  most  obedient  fears, 
Came  with  the  sack  the  lady  to  enclose ; 

In  vain  from  her  stag-eyes  ' '  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  her  innocent  nose;" 

In  vain  her  tongue  wept  sorrow  in  their  ears ; 
Though  there  were  some  felt  willing  to  oppose, 

Yet  when  their  heads  came  in  their  heads,  that  minute. 

Though  'twas  a  piteous  case,  they  put  her  in  it. 

And  when  the  sack  was  tied,  some  two  or  three 
Of  these  black  undertakers  slowly  brought  her 

To  a  kind  of  Moorish  Serpentine ;  for  she 

Was  doomed  to  have  a  winding  sheet  of  water. 

Then  farewell,  earth — farewell  to  the  green  tree — 
Farewell,  the  sun — the  moon — each  little  daughter ! 

She  "s  shot  from  off  the  shoulders  of  a  black, 

Like  a  bag  of  Wall's  End  from  a  coalman's  back. 

The  waters  oped,  and  the  wide  sack  full-filled 
All  that  the  waters  oped,  as  down  it  fell ; 

Then  closed  the  wave,  and  then  the  surface  rilled 
A  ring  above  her,  like  a  water-knell ; 

A  moment  more,  and  all  its  face  was  stilled, 
And  not  a  guilty  heave  was  left  to  tell 

That  underneath  its  calm  and  blue  transparence 

A  dame  lay  drowned  m  her  sack,  like  Clarence. 


THE   STAG-EYED    LADY. 

But  Heaven  beheld,  and  awful  witness  bore, 
The  moon  in  black  eclipse  deceased  that  night, 

Like  Desdemona  smothered  by  the  Moor  ; 
The  lady's  natal  star  with  pale  affi-ight 

Fainted  and  fell — and  what  were  stars  before 
Turned  comets  as  the  tale  was  brought  to  light ; 

And  all  looked  downward  on  the  fatal  wave, 

And  made  their  own  reflections  on  her  grave. 

Next  night,  a  head — a  little  ladj  head, 

Pushed  through  the  waters  a  most  glassy  face. 

With  weedy  tresses,  thrown  apart  and  spread, 
Combed  by  'live  ivory,  to  show  the  space 

Of  a  pale  forehead,  and  two  eyes  that  shed 
A  soft  blue  mist,  breathing  a  bloomy  grace 

Over  their  sleepy  lids — and  so  she  raised 

Her  aqualine  nose  above  the  stream,  and  gazed. 

She  oped  her  lips — lips  of  a  gentle  blush, 
So  pale  it  seemed  near  drowned  to  a  white — 

She  oped  her  lips,  and  forth  there  sprang  a  gush 
Of  music  bubbling  through  the  surface  light ; 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  breezes  hush 
To  listen  to  the  air — and  through  the  night 

There  came  these  words  of  a  most  plaintive  ditty. 

Sobbing  as  they  would  break  all  hearts  with  pity : 


145 


THE    WATER    PERIS    SONG. 


Farewell,  farewell,  to  my  mother's  own  daughter. 
The  child  that  she  Avet-nursed  is  lapped  in  the  waye 

The  M){ssidma.n  coming  to  fish  in  this  water, 

Adds  a  tear  to  the  flood  that  weeps  over  her  grave. 


146  THE   STAG-EYED    LADY. 

This  sack  is  her  coffin,  this  water's  her  bier, 
This  grayish  bath  cloak  is  her  funeral  pall, 

And,  stranger,  0  stranger  !  this  song  that  you  hear 
Is  her  epitaph,  elegy,  dirges,  and  all  ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  to  the  child  of  Al  Hassan, 

INIy  mother's  own  daughter — the  last  of  her  race — 

She 's  a  corpse,  the  poor  body  !  and  lies  in  this  basin^ 
And  sleeps  in  the  water  that  washes  her  face. 


A   LEGEND    OF   NAVARRE. 


'T  WAS  ill  the  reign  of  Lewis,  called  the  Great, 
As  one  may  read  on  his  triumphal  arches, 

The  thing  befell  I  'm  going  to  relate, 

Li  course  of  one  of  those  "pomposo'*  marches 

He  loved  to  make,  like  any  gorgeous  Persian, 

Partly-  for  war,  and  partly  for  diversion. 

Some  wag  had  put  it  in  the  royal  brain 

To  drop  a  visit  at  rai  old  chateau, 
Quite  unexpected,  with  his  courtly  train ; 

The  monarch  liked  it — but  it  happened  so, 
That  Death  had  got  before  them  by  a  post, 
And  they  were  ■•  reckoning  without  their  Aos^." 

Who  died  exactly  as  a  child  should  die, 
"Without  one  groan  or  a  convulsive  breath, 

Closing  without  one  pang  his  quiet  eye, 
Slichng  composedly  from  sleep — to  death  ; 

A  corpse  so  placid  ne'er  adorned  a  bed. 

He  seemed  not  quite— but  only  rather  dead. 

All  night  the  widowed  Baroness  contrived 
To  shed  a  widow's  teai'S ;  but  on  the  morrow 

Some  news  of  such  unusual  sort  arrived. 

There  came  strange  alteration  in  her  sorrow ; 

From  mouth  to  mouth  it  passed,  one  common  humming 

Throuo-hout  the  house— the  King  !  the  King  is  coming  ! 


148  A   LEGEND    OF   NAVARRE. 

The  Baroness,  with  all  her  soul  and  heart, 
A  loyal  woman  (now  called  ultra  royal), 

Soon  thrust  all  funeral  concerns  apart. 
And  only  thought  about  a  banquet  loyal ; 

In  short,  by  aid  of  earnest  preparation, 

The  visit  quite  dismissed  the  visitation. 

And,  spite  of  all  her  grief  for  the  ex-mate, 
There  was  a  secret  hope  she  could  not  smother. 

That  some  one,  early,  might  replace  "the  late" — 
It  was  too  soon  to  think  about  another  ; 

Yet  let  her  minutes  of  despair  be  reckoned 

Against  her  hope,  which  was  but  for  a  second. 

She  almost  thought  that  being  thus  bereft 

Just  then,  was  one  of  time's  propitious  touches; 

A  thread  in  such  a  nick  so  nicked,  it  left 
Free  opportunity  to  be  a  duchess  : 

Thus  all  her  care  was  only  to  look  pleasant. 

But  as  for  tears — she  dropped  them — for  the  present. 

Her  household,  as  good  servants  ought  to  try. 
Looked  like  theii-  lady — any  thing  but  sad. 

And  giggled  even  that  they  might  not  cry, 
To  damp  fine  company :  in  truth  they  had 

No  time  to  mourn,  through  choking  turkeys'  thi-ottles, 

Scouring  old  laces,  and  reviewing  bottles. 

Oh  what  a  hubbub  for  the  house  of  wo  ! 

All,  resolute  to  one  irresolution. 
Kept  tearing,  swearing,  plunging  to  and  fro, 

Just  like  another  French  mob-revolution. 
There  lay  the  corpse  that  could  not  stir  a  muscle, 
But  all  the  rest  seemed  Chaos  in  a  bustle. 


A   LEGEND   OF   NAVARRE. 

The  Monarch  came  :  oh  !  who  could  ever  guess 
The  Baroness  had  been  so  late  a  weeper  ! 

The  kingly  grace  and  more  than  graciousness, 
Buried  the  poor  defanct  some  fathoms  deeper— 

Could  he  have  had  a  glance— alas,  poor  Being  ! 

Seeing  would  certainly  have  led  to  D — ing. 

For  casting  round  about  her  eyes  to  find 
Some  one  to  whom  her  chattels  to  endorse, 

The  comfortable  dame  at  last  inclined 

To  choose  the  cheerful  Master  of  the  Horse ; 

He  was  so  gay — so  tender — the  complete 

Nice  man — the  sweetest  of  the  monarch's  suite. 

He  saw  at  once  and  entered  in  the  lists — 
Glance  unto  glance  made  amorous  replies ; 

They  talked  together  like  two  egotists, 
In  conversation  all  made  up  of  eyes  : 

No  couple  ever  got  so  right  consort-ish 

Within  two  hours — a  courtship  rather  shortish. 

At  last,  some  sleepy,  some  by  wine  opprest, 
The  courtly  company  began  "nid  noddin;" 

The  King  fii'st  sought  his  chamber,  and  the  rest 
Instanter  followed  by  the  course  he  trod  in. 

I  shall  not  please  the  scandalous  by  showing 

The  order,  or  disorder  of  their  going. 

The  old  Chateau,  before  that  night,  had  never 
Held  half  so  many  underneath  its  roof; 

It  tasked  the  Baroness's  best  endeavor, 
And  put  her  best  contrivance  to  the  proof. 

To  give  them  chambers  up  and  down  the  stairs 

In  twos  and  threes,  by  singles,  and  by  pairs. 


149 


150  A   LEGEND    OF   NAVARRE. 

She  had  just  lodging  for  the  whole — jet  barely : 
And  some,  that  were  both  broad  of  back  and  tall, 

Lay  on  spare  beds  that  served  them  very  sparely ; 
However,  there  were  beds  enough  for  all ; 

But  living  bodies  occupied  so  many. 

She  could  not  let  the  dead  one  take  up  any  ! 

The  act  was,  certainly,  not  over  decent : 

Some  small  respect,  e'en  after  death,  she  owed  him, 
Considering  his  death  had  been  so  recent ; 

However,  by  command,  her  servants  stowed  him, 
(I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  he  was  slubbered,) 
Stuck  bolt  upright  within  a  corner  cupboard ! 

And  there  he  slept  as  soundly  as  a  post, 
With  no  more  pillow  than  an  oaken  shelf; 

Just  like  a  kind  accommodatino;  host. 
Taking  all  inconvenience  on  himself ; 

None  else  slept  in  that  room,  except  a  stranger, 

A  decent  man,  a  sort  of  Forest  Ranger. 

Who,  whether  he  had  gone  too  soon  to  bed, 

Or  dreamt  himself  into  an  appetite, 
Howbeit,  he  took  a  longing  to  be  fed, 

About  the  hungry  middle  of  the  night ; 
So  getting  forth,  he  sought  some  scrap  to  eat, 
Hopeful  of  some  stray  pastry,  or  cold  meat. 

The  casual  glances  of  the  midnight  moon, 

Brightening  some  antique  ornaments  of  brass, 

Guided  his  gropings  to  that  corner  soon, 
Just  where  it  stood,  the  coffin-safe,  alas  ! 

He  tried  the  door — then  shook  it — and  in  course 

Of  time  it  opened  to  a  little  farce. 


A    LEGEND    OF    XAVARRE.  151 

He  put  one  hand  in.  and  began  to  grope  : 

The  place  was  very  deep,  and  quite  as  dark  as 

The  middle  night ; — when  lo  !  beyond  his  hope, 
He  felt  a  something  cold — in  fact,  the  carcase ; 

Right  overjoyed,  he  laughed  and  blest  his  luck 

At  finding,  as  he  thought,  this  haunch  of  buck  ! 

Then  striding  back  for  his  couteau  de  chasse, 
Determined  on  a  little  midnight  lunchins:. 

He  came  again  and  probed  about  the  mass, 
As  if  to  find  the  fattest  bit  for  mimching ; 

Not  meaning  wastefully  to  cut  it  all  up, 

But  only  to  abstract  a  little  collop. 

But  just  as  he  had  struck  one  greedy  stroke, 
His  hand  fell  down  quite  powerless  and  weak ; 

For  when  he  cut  the  haunch  it  plainly  spoke 
As  haunch  of  ven'son  never  ought  to  speak  ; 

No  wonder  that  his  hand  could  go  no  further — 

Whose  could  ! — to  carve  cold  meat  that  bellowed 
••  murther  !"' 

Down  came  the  Body  with  a  bounce,  and  down 
The  Ranger  sprang,  a  staircase  at  a  spring, 

And  bawled  enough  to  waken  up  a  town  : 

Some  thought  that  they  were  murdered,  some,  the  King, 

And.  like  Macduif.  did  nothing  for  a  season, 

But  stand  upon  the  spot  and  bellow,  "  Treason  !" 

A  hundred  nightcaps  gathered  in  a  mob. 

Torches  drew  torches,  swords  brought  swords  together. 
It  seemed  so  dark  and  perilous  a  job ; 

The  Baroness  came  trembling  like  a  feather 
Just  in  the  rear,  as  pallid  as  a  corse, 
Leaning  against  the  Master  of  the  Horse. 


152  A   LEGEND    OF   NAVARRE. 

A  dozen  of  the  bravest  up  the  stair, 

Well  lighted  and  well  watched,  began  to  clamber ; 
They  sought  the  door — they  found  it — they  were  there, 

A  dozen  heads  went  poking  in  the  chamber ; 
And  lo  !  with  one  hand  planted  on  his  hurt, 
There  stood  the  Body  bleeding  thro'  his  shirt, — 

No  passive  corse — but  like  a  duellist 

Just  smarting  from  a  scratch — in  fierce  position, 

One  hand  advanced,  and  ready  to  resist ; 
In  fact,  the  Baron  doffed  the  apparition, 

Swearing  those  oaths  the  French  delight  in  most, 

And  for  the  second  time  ''gave  up  the  ghost?" 

A  living  miracle  ! — for  why  ? — the  knife 

That  cuts  so  many  off  from  grave  gray  hairs, 

Had  only  carved  him  kindly  into  life  : 

How  soon  it  changed  the  posture  of  affairs ! 

The  difference  one  person  more  or  less 

Will  make  in  families,  is  past  all  guess. 

There  stood  the  Baroness — no  widow  yet : 
Here  stood  the  Baron — "  in  the  body"  still : 

There  stood  the  Horses'  Master  in  a  pet, 
Choking  with  disappointment's  bitter  pill, 

To  see  the  hope  of  his  reversion  fail, 

Like  that  of  riding  on  a  donkey's  tail. 

The  Baron  lived — "t  was  nothing  but  a  trance  : 
The  lady  died — 't  was  nothing  but  a  death  : 

The  cupboard-cut  served  only  to  enhance 

This  postscript  to  the  old  Baronial  breath :  — 

He  soon  forgave,  for  the  revival's  sake, 

A  little  cliop  intended  for  a  steak ! 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 


"Alas I  what  perils  do  environ 
That  man  who  niediUes  wilh  a  tircn:"' 

IIUDIBRAS. 

On  Margate  beach,  Avhere  the  sick  one  roams, 

And  the  sentimental  reads ; 
Where  the  maiden  flirts,  and  the  widow  comes- 

Like  the  ocean — to  cast  her  weeds ; — 

Where  urchins  wander  to  pick  up  shells, 
And  the  Cit  to  spj  at  the  ships — 

Like  the  water  gala  at  Sadler's  Yfells — 
And  the  Chandler  for  waterj  dips ; — 

There's  a  maiden  sits  by  the  ocean  brim, 

As  lovely  and  fair  as  sin  ! 
But  woe,  deep  water  and  woe  to  him, 

That  she  snareth  like  Peter  Fin  ! 

Her  head  is  crowned  with  pretty  sea-wares. 
And  her  locks  are  golden  and  loose : 

And  seek  to  her  feet,  like  other  folks'  heirs, 
To  stand,  of  course,  in  hei'  slioes  ! 

And,  all  day  long,  she  combeth  them  well. 

With  a  sea-shark's  prickly  jaw  ; 
And  her  mouth  is  just  like  a  rose-lipped  shell, 

The  fairest  that  man  e'er  saw  ! 


1-34  THE    MERMAID    OF   MARGATE. 

And  the  Fishmonger,  humble  as  love  may  be, 
Hath  planted  his  seat  bj  her  side ; 

"  Good  even,  fair  maid  !  Is  thy  lover  at  sea. 
To  make  thee  so  watch  the  tide?" 

She  turned  about  with  her  pearly  brows, 

And  clasped  him  by  the  hand ; 
"  Come,  love,  with  me;  I've  a  bonny  house 

On  the  golden  Goodwin  Sand." 

And  then  she  gave  him  a  siren  kiss. 
No  honeycomb  e'er  was  sweeter  ; 

Poor  wretch  !  how  little  he  dreamt  for  this 
That  Peter  should  be  salt- Peter : 

And  away  with  her  prize  to  the  wave  she  leapt, 

Not  walking,  as  damsels  do, 
With  toe  and  heel,  as  she  ought  to  have  stept, 

But  she  hopt  like  a  Kangaroo  ; 

One  plunge,  and  then  the  victim  was  blind, 
Whilst  they  galloped  across  the  tide ; 

At  last,  on  the  bank  he  waked  in  his  mind, 
And  the  beauty  was  by  his  side. 

One  half' on  the  sand,  and  half  in  the  sea. 
But  his  hair  all  began  to  stiffen  ; 

For  when  he  looked  where  her  feet  should  be, 
She  had  no  more  feet  than  Miss  Biffen  ! 

But  a  scaly  tail,  of  a  dolphin's  growth, 

In  the  dabbling  brine  did  soak ; 
At  last  she  opened  her  pearly  mouth. 

Like  an  oyster,  and  thus  she  spoke : 


THE    MERMAID    OF    MARGATE. 

"  You  crimpt  mj  fother,  who  was  a  skate ; — 
And  my  sister  you  sold — a  maid ; 

So  here  remain  for  a  fish'ry  fate, 
For  lost  you  are,  and  betrayed  !'' 

And  away  she  went,  with  a  sea-gull's  scream, 

And  a  splash  of  her  saucy  tail : 
In  a  moment  he  lost  the  silvery  gleam 

That  shone  on  her  splendid  mail ! 

The  sun  went  down  with  a  blood-red  flame, 
And  the  sky  grew  cloudy  and  black. 

And  the  tumbling  billows  like  leap-frog  came, 
Each  over  the  other's  back  ! 


155 


Ah,  me  !  it  had  been  a  beautiful  scene. 

With  the  safe  terra-fii-ma  round  ; 
But  the  green  water  hillocks  all  seemed  to  him, 

Like  those  in  a  churchyard  ground ; 

And  Christians  love  in  the  turf  to  lie, 

Not  in  watery  graves  to  be ; 
Nay,  the  very  fishes  will  sooner  die 

On  the  land  than  in  the  sea. 


And  whilst  he  stood,  the  watery  strife 

Encroached  on  every  hand, 
And  the  ground  decreased — his  moments  of  life 

Seemed  measured,  like  Time's,  by  sand : 

And  still  the  waters  foamed  in,  like  ale, 

In  front,  and  on  either  flank, 
He  knew  that  Goodwin  and  Co.  must  fail, 

There  vras  siuh  a  run  on  the  bank. 


156  THE   MERMAID    OF   MARGATE. 

A  little  more,  and  a  little  more, 

The  surges  came  tumbHng  in  : 
He  sang  the  evening  hymn  twice  o'er, 

And  thought  of  every  sin  ! 

Each  flounder  and  plaice  lay  cold  at  his  heart. 

As  cold  as  his  marble  slab  ; 
And  he  thought  he  felt  in  every  part, 

The  pincers  of  scalded  crab. 

The  squealing  lobsters  that  he  had  boiled. 

And  the  Kttle  potted  shrimps, 
All  the  horny  prawns  he  had  ever  spoiled, 

Gnawed  into  his  soul,  like  imps  ! 

And  the  billows  were  wandering  to  and  fro. 
And  the  glorious  sun  was  sunk, 

And  Day.  getting  black  in  the  face,  as  though 
Of  the  nightshade  she  had  di'unk  ! 

Had  there  been  but  a  smuggler's  cargo  adrift, 

One  tub,  or  keg,  to  be  seen ; 
It  might  have  given  his  spirits  a  lift, 

Or  an  ankci'  where  Hope  might  lean  ! 

But  there  was  not  a  box  or  a  beam  afloat. 
To  raft  him  from  that  sad  place : 

Not  a  skifi",  nor  a  yawl,  or  a  mackerel  boat, 
Nor  a  smack  upon  Neptune's  face. 

At  last,  his  lingering  hopes  to  buoy, 

He  saw  a  sail  and  a  mast, 
And  called  "  Ahoy  !" — but  it  was  not  a  hoy, 

And  so  the  vessel  went  past. 


THE    MERMAID    OF    MARGATE.  157 

And  with  saucj  -wing  that  flapped  in  his  face, 

The  wild  bu'd  about  him  flew 
With  a  shrilly  scream,  that  twitted  his  case, 

'•  Why,  thou  art  a  sea-gull  too  !" 

And  lo !  the  tide  was  over  his  feet ; 

0  !  his  heart  began  to  freeze, 
And  slowly  to  pulse  : — in  another  beat 

The  wave  was  up  to  his  knees ! 

He  was  deafened  amidst  the  mountain  tops, 

And  the  salt  spray  blinded  his  eyes, 
And  washed  away  the  other  salt  di'ops 

That  grief  had  caused  to  arise  : — 

But  just  as  his  body  was  all  afloat, 

And  the  surges  above  him  broke, 
He  was  saved  from  the  hungry  deep  by  a  boat 

Of  Deal— (but  builded  of  oak). 

The  skipper  gave  him  a  di-am,  as  he  lay. 

And  chafed  his  shiverino-  skin  : 
And  the  Angel  returned  that  was  flying  away 

With  the  spirit  of  Peter  Fin  ! 


OUR  LADY'S   CHAPEL, 

A    LEGEND    OF    COBLENTZ. 


Whoe'er  has  crossed  the  Musel  Bridge. 

And  mounted  bj  the  fort  of  Kaiser  Franz, 
Has  seen,  perchance, 
Just  on  the  summit  of  St.  Peter's  ridge, 
A  little  open  chapel  to  the  right, 
Wherein  the  tapers  aye  are  burning  bright ; 
So  popular,  indeed,  this  holy  shrine, 
At  least  among  the  female  po^-ulation, 
By  night,  or  at  high  noon,  jou  see  it  shine, 
A  very  Missal  for  Ulinjiination  ! 

Yet,  when  you  please,  at  morn  or  eve,  go  by 
All  other  Chapels,  standing  in  the  fields, 
Whose  mouldy,  wifeless  husbandi-y  but  yields 
Beans,  peas,  potatoes,  mangel-wurzel,  rye. 
And  lo !  the  Virgin,  lonely,  dark,  and  hush, 
Without  the  glimmer  of  a  farthing  rush  ! 

But  on  Saint  Peter's  Hill 
The  lights  are  burning,  burnino-,  burnincr  still. 
In  fact,  it  is  a  pretty  retail  trade 
To  furnish  forth  the  candles  ready  made ; 


OUR    LADY  S    CHAPEL. 

And  close  beside  the  chapel  and  the  way, 
A  chandler,  at  her  stall,  sits  day  by  day. 
And  sells,  both  long  and  short,  the  waxen  tapers, 
Smartened  with  tinsel-foil  and  tinted  papers. 

To  give  of  the  mysterious  truth  an  inkling, 
Those  who  in  this  bright  chapel  breathe  a  prayer 
To  "  Unser  Frow,*'  and  burn  a  taper  there. 
Are  said  to  get  a  husband  in  a  twinkling : 
Just  as  she-glow-worms,  if  it  be  not  scandal. 
Catch  partners  with  their  matrimonial  candle. 


159 


How  kind  of  blessed  saints  m  heaven — 
Where  none  in  marriage,  we  are  told,  are  given- 
To  interfere  below  in  making  matches, 
And  help  old  maidens  to  connubial  catches  ! 
The  truth  is,  that  instead  of  looking  smugly 

(At  least,  so  whisper  wags  satirical) 
The  votaries  are  all  so  old  and  ugly. 

No  man  could  foil  in  love  but  by  a  miracle. 
However,  that  such  waxen  gifts  and  vows 
Are  sometimes  for  the  purpose  efficacious 

In  helping  to  a  spouse, 
Is  vouched  for  by  a  story  most  veracious. 

A  certain  Woman,  though  in  name  a  wife, 

Yet  doomed  to  lonely  life. 
Her  truant  husband  having  been  away 
Nine  years,  two  months,  a  week,  and  half  a  day- 
Without  remembrances  by  words  or  deeds — 
Began  to  think  she  had  sufficient  handle 
To  talk  of  widowhood  and  burn  her  weeds, 
Of  course  with  a  wax-candle. 


luO  OUR   LADY  S   CHAPEL, 

Sick,  single-handed  with  the  world  to  grapple, 
TTeary  of  solitude,  and  spleen,  and  vapors, 
Away  she  hurried  to  Our  Ladj's  Chapel, 

Full-handed  with  tico  tapers — 
And  prayed,  as  she  had  never  prayed  before, 
To  be  a  bona,  fide  wife  once  more. 
'•'  Oh  Holy  Virgin  !  listen  to  my  prayer  ! 
And  for  sweet  mercy,  and  thy  sex's  sake. 
Accept  the  vows  and  offerings  I  make — 
Others  set  up  one  light,  but  here  *s  a  pair  /" 

Her  prayer,  it  seemed,  was  heard  ; 
For  in  three  little  weeks,  exactly  reckoned. 

As  blithe  as  any  bii'd. 
She  stood  before  the  Priest  with  Hans  the  Second; — ■ 
A  fact  that  made  her  gratitude  so  hearty, 
To  "  Unser  Frow,"'  and  her  propitious  shrine, 
She  sent  two  waxen  candles  superfine. 
Long  enough  for  a  Lapland  evening  party ! 

Rich  was  the  Wedding  Feast  and  rare — 
^Miat  sausages  were  there  ! 
Of  sweets  and  sours  there  was  a  perfect  glut : 
With  plenteous  liquors  to  wash  down  good  cheer 
Brantwein,  and  Rhum,  Kirsch-wasser,  and  Krug  Bier. 
And  wine  so  sharp  that  every  one  was  cut. 
Rare  was  the  feast — ^but  rarer  was  the  quality 
Of  mirth,  of  smoky -joke,  and  song,  and  toast — 
When  just  in  all  the  middle  of  their  jollity — 
With  bumpers  filled  to  Hostess  and  to  Host. 
And  all  the  unborn  branches  of  their  house, 
Unwelcome  and  unasked,  like  Banquo's  Ghost, 

Li  walked  the  long-lost  Spouse  ! 


OUR  lady's  chapel. 


161 


What  pen  could  ever  paint 
The  hubbub  when  the  Hubs  were  thus  confronted ! 
The  bridesmaids  fitfully  began  to  faint ; 
The  bridesmen  stared — some  whistled,  and  some  grunted : 
Fierce  Hans  the  First  looked  like  a  boar  that 's  hunted, 
Poor  Hans  the  Second  like  a  suckling  calf: 
Meanwhile,  confounded  bj  the  double  miracle, 
The  two-fold  bride  sobbed  out,  with  tears  hysterical, 
"  Oh  Holy  Virgin,  you're  too  good — by  half  P^ 

MORAL. 

Ye  Coblentz  maids,  take  warning  by  the  rhyme, 
And  as  our  Christian  laws  forbid  polygamy 

For  fear  of  bigamy, 
Only  light  up  one  taper  at  a  time. 


r- 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DRAaON. 


In  the  famous  old  times, 

(Famed  for  cbivalrous  crimes,) 

As  the  legends  of  Rhineland  deliver, 

Once  there  flourished  a  Knight, 

Who  Sir  Otto  -svas  hight, 

On  the  banks  of  the  rapid  green  river  ! 

On  the  Drachenfels'  crest 

He  had  built  a  stone  nest, 

From  which  he  pounced  down  like  a  vultiire, 

And  with  talons  of  steel 

Out  of  every  man's  meal 

Took  a  very  extortionate  multure. 

Yet  he  lived  in  good  fame, 

"With  a  nobleman's  name, 

As  '■  Your  High-and- Well-Born"  ■  addi'essed  daily- 

Tho'  Judge  Park  in  his  wig 

"Would  have  deemed  hun  a  prig, 

Or  a  craksman,  if  tried  at  th'  Old  Bailey. 


It  is  strange — very  strange  ! 
How  opinions  will  change  ! — 
How  Antiquity  blazons  and  hallows 


THE    KXiailT   AND    TUE    DRAGON.  163 

Both  the  man  and  the  crime 

That  a  less  lapse  of  time 

Would  commend  to  the  hulks  or  the  gallows  ! 

Thus  enthralled  by  Romance, 

In  a  mystified  trance, 

E'en  a  young,  mild,  and  merciful  Woman 

Will  recall  with  delight 

The  wild  Keep,  and  its  Knight, 

Who  was  cjuite  as  much  Tiger  as  Human  ! 

Now  it  chanced  on  a  day 

In  the  sweet  month  of  IMay, 

From  his  casement  Sir  Otto  was  gazing, 

With  his  sword  in  the  sheath, 

At  that  prospect  beneath, 

Which  our  Tourists  declare  so  amazing ! 

Yes — he  gazed  on  the  Rhine, 

And  its  banks,  so  di^dne  ; 

Yet  with  no  admiration  or  wonder, 

But  the  gout  of  a  thief. 

As  a  more  niDdern  Chief 

Looked  on  London,  and  cried  "What  a  plunder  !" 

From  that  river  so  fast, 

From  that  champaign  so  vast, 

He  collected  rare  tribute  and  presents ; 

Water-rates  from  ships'  loads. 

Highway-rates  on  the  roads, 

And  hard  Poor-rates  from  all  the  poor  Peasants  ! 

^Yhen  behold  !  round  the  base 

Of  his  strong  dwelling-place, 

Only  gained  by  most  toilsome  progression, 


1G4  THE   KXIGIIT   AND    THE   DRAGON. 

He  perceived  a  full  score 

Of  the  rustics,  or  more, 

Winding  up  in  a  sort  of  procession ! 

"  Keep  them  out !"  the  Knight  cried 

To  the  "Warders  outside — 

But  the  Hound  at  his  feet  gave  a  grumble ! 

And  in  scrambled  the  knaves. 

Like  Feudality's  slaves, 

With  all  forms  that  are  servile  and  humbl 

"  Now  for  boorish  complaints  ! 

Grant  me  patience,  ye  Saints!" 

Cried  the  KJnight,  turning  red  as  a  mullet  j 

When  the  baldest  old  man 

Thus  his  story  began, 

With  a  guttural  croak  in  his  gullet ! 

"  Lord  Supreme  of  our  lives, 

Of  our  daughters,  our  -^vives, 

Our  she-cousins,  our  sons,  and  their  spouses. 

Of  our  sisters  and  aunts. 

Of  the  babies  God  grants, 

Of  the  handmaids  that  dwell  in  our  houses ! 

"  Mighty  master  of  all 

We  possess,  great  or  small. 

Of  our  cattle,  our  sows,  and  their  farrows  • 

Of  our  mares  and  their  colts. 

Of  our  crofts,  and  our  holts. 

Of  our  ploughs,  of  our  wains,  and  our  harrows ! 

"  Noble  Lord  of  the  soil. 

Of  its  corn  and  its  oil, 

Of  its  wine,  only  fit  for  such  gentles ! 


THE   KNIGHT  AND   THE   DRAGON.  165 

Of  our  carp  and  sauer-kraut, 

Of  our  carp  and  our  trout, 

Our  black  bread,  and  black  puddings,  and  lentils ! 

'•  SoYi'an  Lord  of  our  cheese, 

And  -whatever  you  please — 

Of  our  bacon,  our  eggs,  and  our  butter, 

Of  our  backs  and  our  polls, 

Of  our  bodies  and  souls — 

0  give  ear  to  the  tyocs  that  we  utter ! 

"  "We  are  truly  perplexed, 

We  are  frighted  and  vexed, 

Till  the  strings  of  our  heart  are  all  twisted; 

We  are  ruined  and  curst, 

By  the  fiercest  and  worst 

Of  all  Robbers  that  ever  existed  1" 

'•  Kow  by  Heaven  and  this  light !" 

In  a  rage  cried  the  Knight, 

"  For  this  speech  all  your  bodies  shall  stiffen! 

What !  by  Peasants  miscalled  !" 

Quoth  the  man  that  was  bald, 

"  Not  your  honor  we  mean,  but  a  Griffin. 

"  For  our  herds  and  our  flocks 

He  lays  wait  in  the  rocks, 

And  jumps  forth  without  giving  us  warning ; 

Two  poor  wethers,  right  fat. 

And  foui-  lambs  after  that, 

Did  he  swallow  this  very  May  morning !" 

Then  the  High-and-Well-Born 

Gave  a  laugh  as  in  scorn, 

"  Is  the  Griffin  indeed  such  a  glutton? 


166        THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

Let  him  eat  up  the  rams, 

And  the  lambs,  and  their  dams — 

If  I  hate  any  meat  it  is  mutton  !" 

"  Nay,  your  Worship,"  said  then 

The  most  bald  of  old  men, 

"  For  a  sheep  we  -svould  hardly  thus  cavil. 

If  the  merciless  Beast 

Did  not  oftentimes  feast 

On  the  Pilgrims,  and  people  that  travel." 

"  Feast  on  what?"  cried  the  Knight, 

While  his  eye  glistened  bright 

With  the  most  diabolical  flashes — 

"  Does  the  Beast  dare  to  prey 

On  the  road  and  highway  ? 

With  our  proper  diversion  that  clashes  1" 

"  Yea,  'tis  so,  and  far  worse," 

Said  the  Clown,  "  to  our  curse  : 

For  by  way  of  a  snack  or  a  tifiin, 

Every  week  in  the  year 

Sure  as  Sundays  appear, 

A  young  Virgin  is  thrown  to  the  Griffin  1'' 

"Ha!  Saint  Peter  I  Saint  Mark!" 

Iloar'd  the  Knight,  frowning  dark, 

With  an  oath  that  was  awful  and  bitter : 

"  A  young  maid  to  his  dish ! 

Why,  what  more  could  he  wish, 

If  the  Beast  were  High-Born  and  a  Bitter  I 

"  Now  by  this  our  good  brand. 

And  by  this  our  right  hand. 

By  the  badge  that  is  borne  on  our  banners. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

If  wc  can  but  once  meet 

With  the  jNIonster's  retreat, 

"VVe  will  teach  him  to  poach  on  our  Manors  1" 

Quite  content  "with  this  voav, 

With  a  scrape  and  a  bow 

The  glad  Peasants  went  home  to  their  flagons., 

Where  thej  tippled  so  deep, 

That  each  clown  in  his  sleep 

Dreamt  of  killing;  a  legion  of  Drao-ons ! 

Thus  eno;ao;ed,  the  bold  Knirfit 

Soon  prepared  for  the  flght 

With  the  wily  and  scaly  marauder ; 

But  ere  battle  began, 

Like  a  good  Christian  man, 

First  he  put  all  his  household  in  order. 

"  Double  bolted  and  barred 

Let  each  gate  have  a  guard" — 

(Thus  his  rugged  Lieutenant  was  bidden) 

"And  be  sure,  without  fault. 

No  one  enters  the  vault 

Where  the  Church's  gold  vessels  are  hidden. 

"  In  the  dark  Oubliette, 

Let  yon  Merchant  forget 

That  he  e'er  had  a  bark  richly  laden — 

And  that  desperate  youth. 

Our  own  rival,  forsooth ! 

Just  indulge  with  a  Kiss  of  the  Maiden  I 

"  Crush  the  thumbs  of  the  Jew 

With  the  vice  and  the  screw. 

Till  he  tells  where  he  buried  his  treasure ; 


167 


168        THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

And  deliver  our  word 

To  jon  sullen  caged  Bird, 

That  to-night  she  must  sing  for  our  pleasure !" 

Thereupon,  cap-a^pee, 

As  a  Champion  should  be, 

With  the  bald-headed  Peasant  to  guide  him, 

On  his  War-horse  he  bounds, 

And  then,  •whistling  his  hounds. 

Prances  off  to  ^vhat  fate  may  betide  him ! 

Nor  too  long  do  they  seek 

Ere  a  horrible  reek. 

Like  the  fumes  from  some  villanous  tavern. 

Sets  the  dogs  on  the  snuff. 

For  they  scent  "well  enough 

The  foul  Monster  coiled  up  in  his  cavern ! 

Then  alighting  -with  speed 

Prom  his  terrified  steed, 

Which  he  ties  to  a  tree  for  the  present, 

With  his  sword  ready  drawn, 

Strides  the  Ritter  High-born, 

And  along  with  him  drags  the  scared  peasant ! 

'■  0  Sir  Knight,  good  Sir  Knight! 

I  am  near  enough  qmte — 

I  have  shown  you  the  Beast  and  his  grotto :" 

But  before  he  can  reach 

Any  farther  in  speech. 

He  is  stricken  stone-dead  by  Sir  Otto ! 

Who,  withdrawinor  himself 

To  a  high  rocky  shelf. 

Sees  the  Monster  his  tail  disentansle 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

From  each  tortuous  coil, 

"With  a  sudden  turmoil, 

And  rush  forth  the  dead  Peasant  to  mangle. 

With  his  terrible  claws, 

And  his  horrible  jaws, 

He  soon  moulds  the  warm  corse  to  a  jelly ; 

Which  he  quickly  sucks  in 

To  his  own  wicked  skin 

And  then  sinks  at  full  stretch  on  his  belly. 

Then  the  Knight  softly  goes. 

On  the  tips  of  his  toes, 

To  the  greedy  and  slumbering  Savage, 

And  with  one  hearty  stroke 

Of  his  sword,  and  a  poke, 

Kills  the  Beast  that  had  made  such  a  ravage. 

So,  extended  at  length. 

Without  motion  or  strength, 

That  gorged  Serpent  they  call  the  Constrictor, 

After  dinner,  while  deep 

In  lethargical  sleep, 

Falls  a  prey  to  his  Hottentot  victor. 

"  'Twas  too  easy  by  half!"' 

Said  the  Knight,  with  a  laugh ; 

'•But  as  nobody  witnessed  the  slaughter, 

I  will  swear,  knock  and  knock, 

By  Saint  Winifred's  clock. 

We  were  at  it  three  hours  and  a  quarter !" 

Then  he  chopt  off  the  head 
Of  the  Monster  so  dread, 
"Which  he  tied  to  his  horse  as  a  trophy ; 
8 


169 


170        THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

And,  with  Hounds,  by  the  same 

Ragged  path  that  he  came. 

Home  he  jogged  proud  as  Sultan  or  Sophy  ! 

Blessed  Saints  !  what  a  rout 

When  the  news  jflew  about. 

And  the  carcase  was  fetched  in  a  wagon  ; 

What  an  outcry  rose  wild 

From  man,  woman,  and  child — 

"Live  Sir  Otto,  who  vanquished  the  Dragon!" 

All  that  night  the  thick  walls 

Of  the  Knight's  feudal  halls 

Kang  with  shouts  for  the  wine-cup  and  flagon ; 

'WTiilst  the  Vassals  stood  by, 

And  repeated  the  cry — 

"Live  Sir  Otto,  who  vanquished  the  Dragon!" 

The  next  night,  and  the  next, 

Still  the  fight  was  the  text, 

'T  was  a  theme  for  the  Minstrels  to  brag  on! 

And  the  Vassals'  hoarse  throats 

Still  re-echoed  the  notes — 

"Live  Sir  Otto  who  vanquished  the  Dragon!" 

There  was  never  such  work 

Since  the  days  of  King  Stork, 

When  he  lived  with  the  Frogs  at  free  quarters ! 

Not  to  name  the  invites 

That  were  sent  down  of  nights, 

To  the  \'illagers'  wives  and  their  daughters ! 

It  was  feast  upon  feast, 

For  good  cheer  never  ceased. 

And  a  foray  replenished  the  flagon: 


THE    KXIGHT   AXD    TEE   DRAGON.  171 

And  the  A^'assals  stood  by, 

But  more  Aveak  was  the  cry — 

"Live  Sir  Otto,  who  vanquished  the  dragon  1" 

Down  again  sank  the  sun, 

Nor  were  revels  yet  done — 

But  as  if  every  mouth  had  a  gag  on, 

Tho'  the  Vassals  stood  round. 

Deuce  a  word  or  a  sound 

Of  '•  Sir  Otto  who  vanquished  the  Dragon!" 

There  was  feasting  aloft. 

But,  thro'  pillage  so  oft 

Down  below  there  was  wailing  and  hunger ; 

And  affection  ran  cold, 

And  the  food  of  the  old, 

It  was  wolfishly  snatched  by  the  younger ! 

Mad  with  troubles  so  vast. 

Where 's  the  wonder  at  last 

If  the  Peasants  quite  altered  their  motto  ? — 

And  with  one  loud  accord 

Cried  out  "  Would  to  the  Lord 

That  the  Dragon  had  vanquished  Sir  Otto!" 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


WIT   AND   HUMOR^ 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


STANZAS  OX  COMING  OF  AGE. 

"  Twiddle'em,  Twaddle'em,  Twenty-one." 

Nurse.  O  woe  !  O  woeful,  woeful  day  ! 

Most  lamentable  day  I  most  woeful  day  ! 

That  ever,  ever,  I  did  yet  behold  ! 

O  day!  0  day  !  O  day  !  O  hateful  day! 

Never  was  seen  so  black  a  day  as  this ! 

O  woeful  day  1  O  woeful  day  ! 

***** 
Musician.     Faith,  we  may  put  up  our  pipes  and  be  gone. 
Nurse.  Honest  good  fellows,  ah  !  put  up,  put  up ! 

For  well  you  know  this  is  a  pitiful  case. 

Romeo  akd  Juliet. 

To-DAT  it  is  my  natal  day, 

Three  'prenticeships  have  past  away, 

A  part  in  work,  a  part  in  play, 

Since  I  was  bound  to  life  ! 
This  first  of  ^Nlay  I  come  of  age, 
A  man,  I  enter  on  the  stage 
Where  human  passions  fret  and  rage, 

To  mingle  in  the  strife. 

It  ought  to  he  a  happy  date, 
My  friends,  they  all  congratulate 
That  I  am  come  to  "  Man's  Estate," 
To  some,  a  grand  event ; 


176  STANZAS   ON   COMING   OF   AGE. 

But  ah  !  to  me  descent  allots 
No  acres,  no  maternal  spots 
In  Beds,  Bucks,  Herts,  Wilts,  Essex,  Notts, 
Hants,  Oxon,  Berks,  or  Kent. 

From  John  o'Groat's  to  Land's  End  search, 
I  have  not  one  rod,  pole,  or  perch, 
To  pay  my  rent,  or  tithe  to  church, 

That  I  can  call  my  own. 
Not  common-right  for  goose  or  ass ; 
Then  what  is  Man's  Estate  ?     Alas  ! 
Six  feet  by  two  of  mould  and  grass 

"\ATien  I  am  dust  and  bone. 

Reserve  the  feast !  The  board  forsake  ! 
Ne'er  tap  the  wine — don't  cut  the  cake, 
No  toasts  or  foolish  speeches  make, 

At  which  my  reason  spurns. 
Before  this  happy  term  you  praise, 
And  prate  about  returns  and  days, 
Just  o'er  my  vacant  rent-roll  gaze, 

And  sum  up  my  retrurns. 

I  know  where  great  estates  descend 
That  here  is  Boyhood's  legal  end, 
And  easily  can  comprehend 

How  "  Manors  make  the  Man." 
But  as  for  me,  I  was  not  born 
To  quit-rent  of  a  peppercorn. 
And  gain  no  ground  this  blessed  mom 

From  Beersheba  to  Dan. 

No  barrels  broach — no  bonfii-es  make  ! 
To  roast  a  bullock  for  my  sake. 


STANZAS   ON    COMING    OF   AGE.  177 

Who  in  the  countiy  have  no  stake, 

Would  be  too  like  a  quiz  ; 
No  banners  hoist — let  off  no  gun — 
Pitch  no  marquee — devise  no  fun — 
But  think  Tvhen  man  is  Twenty-One 

What  new  delights  are  his  ! 

What  is  the  moral  legal  fact — 
Of  age  to-day,  I  'm  free  to  act 
For  self — free,  namely,  to  contract 

Engagements,  bonds,  and  debts  ; 
I  'm  free  to  give  my  I  0  U, 
Sign,  draw,  accept,  as  majors  do ; 
And  free  to  lose  my  fi-eedom  too 

For  want  of  due  assets. 

I  am  of  age  to  ask  Miss  Ball, 

Or  that  great  heiress.  Miss  Duval, 

To  go  to  church,  hump,  squint,  and  all, 

And  be  my  own  for  life. 
But  put  such  reasons  on  their  shelves, 
To  tell  the  truth  between  ourselves, 
I  'm  one  of  those  contented  elves 

Who  do  not  want  a  wife. 

"What  else  belongs  to  ]\Ianhood  still  ? 
I  'm  old  enough  to  make  my  will 
With  valid  clause  and  codicil 

Before  in  turf  I  lie. 
But  I  have  nothing  to  bequeath 
In  earth,  or  waters  underneath. 
And  in  all  candor  let  me  breathe, 

I  do  not  want  to  die. 


178  STA^^ZAS  ON  COMING  OF  AGE. 

Away!   if  this  be  Manhood's  forte, 
Put  by  the  sherry  and  the  port — 
No  ring  of  bells — no  rustic  sport — 

No  dance — no  merry  pipes  ! 
No  flowery  garlands — no  bouquet — 
No  Birthday  Ode  to  sing  or  say — 
To  me  it  seems  this  is  a  day 

For  bread  and  cheese  and  swipes. 

To  justify  the  festive  cup 

What  horrors  here  are  conjured  up  ! 

What  things  of  bitter  bite  and  sup, 

Poor  wretched  Twenty-One's  ! 
No  landed  lumps,  but  frumps  and  humps, 
(Discretion's  Days  are  far  from  trumps,) 
Domestic  discord,  dowdies,  dumps, 

Death,  dockets,  debts,  and  duns  ! 

If  you  must  drink,  oh  drink  '•  the  King," 
Reform — the  Church — the  Press — the  Ring, 
Drink  Aldgate  Pump — or  anything, 

Before  a  toast  like  this  ! 
Nay,  tell  me,  coming  thus  of  age. 
And  turning  o'er  this  sorry  page, 
Was  young  Nineteen  so  far  from  sage  ? 

Or  young  Eighteen  from  bliss  ? 

Till  this  dull,  cold,  wet,  happy  morn — 
No  sign  of  May  about  the  thorn — 
Were  Love  and  Bacchus  both  unborn  ? 

Had  Beauty  not  a  shape  ? 
Make  answer,  sweet  Kate  Finnerty  ! 
Make  answer,  lads  of  Trinity  ? 
Who  sipped  with  me  Divinity, 

And  quaffed  the  ruby  grape  ! 


STANZAS   ON    COMING    OF   AGE.  1T9 

Xu  (lunimerj  then  from  flowery  lips, 
No  throe  times  three  and  hip-hip-hips, 
Because  I  "m  ripe  and  full  of  pips — 

I  like  a  little  green. 
To  put  me  on  my  solemn  oath, 
If  sweep-like  I  could  stop  my  growth 
I  would  remain,  and  nothing  loth, 

A  boy — about  nineteen. 

I^Iy  friends,  excuse  me  these  rebukes  ! 
Were  I  a  monarch's  son,  or  duke's. 
Go  to  the  A^atican  of  Meux 

And  broach  his  Ijiggest  barrels — 
Impale  whole  elephants  on  spits — 
Ring  Tom  of  Lincoln  till  he  splits, 
And  dance  into  St.  Vitus" s  fits, 

And  break  your  winds  with  carols  ! 

But  ah  !  too  well  you  know  my  lot, 
Ancestral  acres  greet  me  not. 
My  freehold  "s  in  a  garden-pot. 

And  barely  worth  a  pin. 
Away  then  with  all  festive  stuff ! 
Let  Robins  advertise  and  puff 
My  "  Man's  Estate/'  I'm  sure  enough 

I  shall  not  buy  it  in. 


180  THE   LOST   HEIR. 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 


"  Oh  where,  and  oh  where 
Is  my  bonnle  laddie  gone  ?" — Old  Sono. 

One  day,  as  I  was  going  by 

That  part  of  Holborn  christened  High, 

I  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  cry 

That  chill'd  my  very  blood; 
And  lo !  from  out  a  dirty  alley, 
Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 
I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaubed  with  grease  and  mud. 
She  turned  her  East,  she  turned  her  West, 
Staring  like  Pythoness  possest, 
With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 

As  one  stark  mad  with  grief 
This  way  and  that  she  wildly  ran. 
Jostling  with  woman  and  with  man — 
Her  right  hand  held  a  frying-pan, 

The  left  a  lump  of  beef 
At  last  her  frenzy  seemed  to  reach 
A  point  just  capable  of  speech, 
And  with  a  tone,  almost  a  screech, 

As  wild  as  ocean  birds, 
Or  female  Ranter  mov.ed  to  preach. 

She  gave  her  "  sorrow  words." 

"  0  Lord!  0  dear,  my  heart  will  break,   I  shall  go  stick 

stark  staring  wild ! 
Has  ever  a  one  seen  any  thing  about  the  streets  like  a 

crying  lost-looking  child? 


THE   LOST  HEIR.  ISl 

Lawk  help  me,  I  don't  know  where  to  look,  or  to  run,  if  I 

only  knew  which  way — 
A  Qiild  as  is  lost  about   London  streets,   and  especially 

Seven  Dials,  is  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  hay. 
I  am  all  in  a  quiver — get  out  of  my  sight,  do.  you  wretch. 

you  little  Kitty  M'Xab ! 
You  promised  to  have  half  an  eye  to  him.  you  know  you 

did,  you  ditty  deceitful  young  drab. 
The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing,  was  with  my 

own  blessed  ^lotherly  eyes, 
Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a  playing  at  making 

little  dirt  pies. 
I  wonder  he  left  the  court,  where  he  was  better  off  than  all 

the  other  young  boys, 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-shells,  and  a  dead 

kitten  by  way  of  toys. 
When  his  Father  comes  home,  and  he  always  comes  home 

as  sure  as  ever  the  clock  strikes  one, 
He  '11  be  rampant,  he  will,  at  his  child  being  lost ;  and  the 

beef  and  the  inguns  not  done ! 
La  bless  you.   good  folks,  mind  your  own  concarns.   and 

don't  be  making  a  mob  in  the  street; 
0  Serjeant  M 'Far lane  !  you  have  not  come  across  my  poor 

little  boy,  have  you.  in  your  beat  ? 
Do,  good  people,  move  on !  don't  stand  staring  at  me  like  a 

parcel  of  stupid  stuck  pigs ; 
Saints  forbid !  but  he  's  p'r'aps  been  inviggled  away  up  a 

court  for  the  sake  of  his  clothes  by  the  priggs : 
He'd  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I  bought  it  my  sell 

for  a  shilling  one  day  in  Rag  Fair ; 
And  his  trowsers  considering  not  very  much  patched,  and 

red  plush,  they  was  once  his  Father's  best  pair. 


— I 


182  THE   LOST   HEIR. 

His  shirt,  it  "s  very  luckj  I  "d  got  washing  in  the  tub,  or 

that  might  have  gone  -with  the  rest ; 
But  he  \1  got  on  a  verj  good  pinafore  Tvith  onlj  two  slits 

and  a  Imrn  on  the  breast. 
He  'd  a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown  was  sew'd  in,  and 

not  quite  so  much  jagged  at  the  brim. 
Yuth  one  shoe  on,  and  the  other  shoe  is  a  boot,  and  not  a 

fit,  and  jou  "11  know  by  that  if  it 's  him. 
Except  being  so  well  dressed,  my  mind  would  misgive,  some 

old  beggar  woman  in  want  of  an  orphan 
Had  borrowed  the  child  to  go  a  begging  with ;  but  I"d  rather 

see  him  laid  out  in  his  coffin ! 
Do,   good  people,  move  on;  such  a  rabble  of  boys!   I'll 

break  every  bone  of  'em  I  come  near  ; 
Go  home — ^you  're  spilling  the  porter — go  home — Tommy 

Jones,  go  along  with  your  beer. 
This  day  is  the  sorrowfullest  day  of  my  life,  ever  since  my 

name  was  Betty  ^Morgan, 
Them  vile  Savoyards !  they  lost  him  once  before  all  along 

of  following  a  Monkey  and  an  Organ  : 
0  my  Billy — my  head  will  turn  right  round — if  he  "s  got 

kiddy napp'd  with  them  Italians 
They  "11  make  him  a  plaster  parish  image  boy,  they  will, 

the  outlandish  tatterdemalions. 
Billy — where  are  you,  Billy  ? — I  'm  as  hoarse  as  a  crow, 

with  screaming  for  ye.  you  young  sorrow !  ' 
And  shan't  have  half  a  voice,  no  more  I  shan"t.  for  crvin-]: 

fresh  herrings  to-morrow. 
0  Billy,  you  're  bui'sting  my  heart  in  two,  and  my  life 

won"t  be  of  no  more  vally, 
If  I  "m  to  see  other  folks  darlins,  and  none  of  mine,  play- 
ing like  angels  in  our  alley, 


r--— — 


THE    LOST    HEIR.  183 

And  what  shall  I  Jo  Ijut  cry  out  my  eyes,  when  I  looks  at 

the  old  three-le^rrred  chair 
As  Billy  used  to  make  coach  and  horses  of.  and  there  a" n't 

no  Billy  there  ! 
I  would  run  all  the  wide  world  over  to  find  him.  if  I  only 

knowed  where  to  run ; 
Little  Murphy,  now  I  remember,  was  once  lost  for  a  month 

through  stealing  a  penny-bun — 
The  Lord  forbid  of  any  child  of  mine  !  I   think   it  would 

kill  me  raily 
To  find  my  Bill  holdin'  up  his  little  innocent  hand  at   the 

Old  Bailey. 
For  though  I  say  it  as  oughtn't,  yet  I  will  say.  you  may 

search  for  miles  and  mileses 
And  not  find  one  better  brought  up,  and  more  pretty  be- 
haved, from  one  end  to  t'  other  of  St.  Giles's. 
And  if  I  called  him  a  beauty,  it's  no  lie,  but  only  as  a 

Mother  ought  to  speak  ; 
You  never  set  eyes  on  a  more  handsomer  face,  only  it  has  n't 

been  washed  for  a  week ; 
As  for  hair,  tho'  its  red,  its  the  most  nicest  hair  when  I  "ve 

time  to  just  show  it  the  comb ; 
I  '11  owe  'em  five  pounds,  and  a  blessing  besides,  as  will  only 

bring  him  safe  and  sound  home. 
He 's  blue  eyes,  and  not  to  be  called  a  squint,  though  a  little 

cast  he 's  certainly  got ; 
And  his  nose  is  still  a  good  un,  tho'  the  bridge  is  broke,  1)y 

his  falling  on  a  pewter  pint  pot ; 
He 's  got  the  most  elegant  wide  mouth  in  the  world,  and 

very  lars^e  teeth  for  his  asre ; 
And  quite  as  fit  as  Mrs.  Murdockson's  child  to  play  Cupid 

on  the  Drury  Lane  Stage. 
And  then  he  has  got  such  dear  winning  ways — but   0   I 

never  never  shall  see  him  no  more  ! 


184  THE   LOST   HEIR. 

0  dear  !  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  nussing  him  back 
from  death's  door ! 

Onlj  the  very  last  month  when  the  windfalls,  hang  'em, 

was  at  twenty  a  penny  ! 
And  the  threepence  he  'd  got  by  grottoing  was   spent  in 

plums,  and  sixty  for  a  child  is  too  many. 
And  the  Cholera  man  came  and  whitewashed  us  all  and,  drat 

him,  made  a  seize  of  our  hog. — 
It 's  no  use  to  send  the  Cryer  to  cry  him  about,  he  's  such  a 
i  blunderin'  drunken  old  dog ; 

The  last  time  he  was  fetched  to  find  a  lost  child,  he  was 

guzzling  with  his  bell  at  the  Crown, 
And  went  and  cried  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl,  for  a  distracted 

Mother  and  Father  about  Town. 
Billy — where  are  you,  Billy,  I  say  ?  come  Billy,  come  home, 

to  your  best  of  Mothers  ! 

1  'm  scared  when  I  think  of  them  Cabroleys,  they  drive  so, 
they  'd  run  over  their  own  Sisters  and  Brothers. 

Or  may  be  he  's  stole  by  some  chimbly  sweeping  wretch,  to 

stick  fast  in  narrow  flues  and  what  not, 
And  be  poked  up  behind  with  a  picked  pointed  pole,  when 

the  soot  has  ketched,  and  the  chimbly" s  red  hot. 
Oh  I  'd  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the  world  was  mine, 

to  clap  my  two  longin'  eyes  on  his  face. 
For  he's  my  darlin  of  darlins,  and  if  he  don't  soon  come 

back,  you  '11  see  me  drop  stone  dead  on  the  place. 
I  only  wish  I  'd  got  him  safe  in  these   two  Motherly  arms, 

and  would  n't  I  hug  him  and  kiss  him  ! 
Lauk  !  I  never  knew  what  a  precious  he  was — but  a  child 

don't  not  feel  like  a  child  till  you  miss  him. 
V\liy  there  he  is  !   Punch   and  Judy  hunting,  the  young 

wretch,  it's  that  Billy  as  sartin  as  sin  ! 
But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip  of  his  hair,  and 

I  'm  blest  if  he  shall  have  a  whole  bone  in  his  skin  ! 


A   SINGULAR   EXHIBITION   AT   SOMERSET   HOUSE.      185 


A  SINCtUL.1R  EXHIBmOX  AT   SOMEESET  HOUSE. 

"Our  Crummie  is  a  dainty  cow."— Scotch  Song. 

Ox  that  fii-st  Saturday  in  Maj. 

When  Lords  and  Ladies,  great  and  grand, 

Repair  to  see  what  each  R.  A. 

Has  done  since  last  thej  sought  the  Strand 

Li  red,  brown,  jellow,  green,  or  blue, 

In  short,  what  "s  called  the  private  ^-iew, 

Amongst  the  guests — the  deuce  knows  how 

She  got  in  there  without  a  row — 

There  came  a  large  and  vulgar  dame 

With  arms  deep  red,  and  face  the  same. 

Showing  in  temper  not  a  Saint ; 

No  one  could  guess  for  why  she  came, 

Unless  perchance  to  "'  scour  the  Paint." 

From  wall  to  wall  she  forced  her  way. 
Elbowed  Lord  Durham — poked  Lord  Grey — 
Stamped  Staflord's  toes  to  make  him  move, 
And  Devonshire's  Duke  received  a  shove ; 
The  great  Lord  Chancellor  felt  her  nudge, 
She  made  the  Vice,  his  Honor,  bud^e. 
And  gave  a  pmch  to  Park  the  Judge. 
As  for  the  ladies,  in  this  stir, 
The  highest  rank  gave  way  to  her. 

From  number  one  and  number  two, 

She  searched  the  pictures  through  and  throut^h, 

On  benches  stood,  to  inspect  the  high  ones. 

And  squatted  down  to  scan  the  shy  ones. 

And  as  slie  went  from  part  to  part, 

A  deeper  red  each  cheek  became, 


186  A   SINGULAR   EXHIBITION 

Her  very  eyes  lit  up  in  flame, 

That  made  each  looker-on  exclaim, 

'•  Really  an  ardent  love  of  art !" 

Alas,  amidst  her  inquisition, 

Fate  brought  her  to  a  sad  condition ; 

She  might  have  run  against  Lord  Milton, 

And  still  have  stared  at  deeds  in  oil, 

But  ah  !  her  picture-joy  to  spoil, 

She  came  full  butt  on  Mr.  Hilton. 

The  Keeper  mute,  -with  staring  eyes, 
Like  a  lay-figure  for  surprise. 
At  last  thus  stammered  out  "Ho"V7  now? 
Woman — where,  woman,  is  your  ticket, 
That  ought  to  let  you  through  our  wicket?" 
Says  woman,  '-AYhere  is  David's  Cow?" 

Said  Mr.  H .  with  expedition, 

There 's  no  Cow  in  the  Exhibition. 

"  No  Cow  !"' — but  here  her  tongue  in  verity, 

Set  off  with  steam  and  rail  celerity — 

"  No  Cow  !  there  an't  no  Cow,  then  the  more  's  the  shame 

and  pity 
Hang  you  and  the  R.  A.'s,  and  all  the  Hanging  Committee  ! 
No  cow — but  hold  your  tongue,  for  you  needn't  talk  to  me — 
You  can't  talk  up  the  Cow,  you  can"t,  to  where  it  ought 

to  be — 
I  have  n't  seen  a  picture  high  or  low,  or  any  how. 
Or  in  any  of  the  rooms  to  be  compared  with  David's  Cow? 
You  may  talk  of  your  Landseers,  and  of  your  Coopers,  and 

your  "Wards, 
Why  hanging  is  too  good  for  them,  and  yet  here  they  are 

on  cords \ 


AT   SOMEKSET   HOrSE.  187 

They  "re  only  fit  for  -syindow  frames,  and  shutters,  and  street 

doors, 
David  Avill  paint  "em  any  day  at  Red  Lions  or  Blue  Boars — 
^\}lJ  Morland  was  a  fool  to  him,  at  a  little  pig  or  sow- 
It  "s  really  hard  it  an't  hung  up— I  could  cry  about  the 

Cow! 
But  I  know  well  what  it  is,  and  why— they're  jealous  of 

David's  fame, 
But  to  vent  it  on  the  Cow,  poor  thing,  is  a  cruelty  and  a 

shame. 
Do  you  think  it  might  hang  by  and  by,  if  you  cannot  hang 

it  now? 
David  has  made  a  party  up  to  come  and  see  his  Cow. 
If  it  only  hung  three  days  a  week,  for  an  example  to  the 

learners, 
\Vb.j  can't  it  hang  up,  turn  about,  with  that  picture  of  Mr. 

Turner's? 
Or  do  you  think  from  Mr.  Etty,  you  need  apprehend  a  row  ? 
If  now  and  then  you  cut  him  down  to  hang  up  David's  Cow  ? 
I  can  t  thmk  where  their  tastes  have  been,  to  not  have  such 

a  creature. 
Although  I  say,  that  should  not  say,  it  was  prettier  than 
Nature ; 

It  must  be  hung — and  shall  be  hung,  for  Mr.  H ,  I 

vow, 
I  dare  n't  take  home  the  catalogue,  unless  it 's  got  the  Cow  I 
As  we  only  want  it  to  be  seen,  I  should  not  so  much  care, 
If  it  was  only  round  the  stone  man's  neck,  a-coming  up  the 

stair. 
Or  down  there  in  the  marble  room  where  all  the  figures 

stand. 
'Where  one  of  them  three  Graces  might  just  hold  it  in  her 
hand — 


188  I'm  going  to  bombat. 

Or  maybe  Bailey's  Charity  the  favor  would  allo-w. 
It  would  really  be  a  charity  to  hang  up  David's  cow. 
We  have  n"t  no  where  else  to  go  if  you  don"t  hang  it  here, 
The  Water- Color  place  allows  no  oilman  to  appear — 
And  the  British  Gallery  sticks  to  Dutch,  Teniers,  and  Ger- 

rard  Douw, 
And  the  Suffolk  Gallery  will  not  do — it 's  not  a  Suffolk  Cow : 
I  wish  you  "d  see  him  painting  her,  he  hardly  took  his  meals 
Till  she  was  painted  on  the  board  correct  from  head  to  heels; 
His  heart  and  soul  was  in  his  Cow,  and  almost  made  him 

shabby, 
He  hardly  whipped  the  boys  at  all,  or  helped  to  nurse  the 

babby. 
And  when  he  had  her  all  complete  and  painted  over  red, 
He  got  so  grand,  I  really  thought  him  going  off  his  head. 
Now  hang  it,  Mr.  Hilton,  do  just  hang  it  any  how, 
Poor  David,   he  will  hang  himself,   unless  you  hang  his 

Cow — 
And  if  it  "s  unconvenient  and  drawn  too  big  by  half — 
David  shan't  send  next  year  except  a  very  little  calf. 


I'M  GOING  TO  BO^IBAY. 


"Nothing  venture,  nothins  have." — Old  Peovteb. 
"Every  Indiaman  has  at  least  two  mates." — 

Falconee's  Maeini  GrTDE. 


My  hau'  is  brown,  my  eyes  are  blue, 
And  reckoned  rather  bright ; 
I  'm  shapely,  if  they  tell  me  true, 
And  just  the  proper  height; 


I  'M    going    to    BOMBAY.  189 

My  skin  has  been  admired  in  verse, 
And  called  as  fair  as  day — 
If  I  am  fair,  so  much  the  worse, 
I  'm  gomg  to  Bombay  ! 

At  school  I  passed  with  some  eclat ; 
I  learned  my  French  in  France ; 
De  Wint  gave  lessons  how  to  draw, 
And  D'Egville  how  to  dance — 
Crevelli  taught  me  how  to  sing, 
And  Cramer  how  to  play — 
It  really  is  the  strangest  thing — 
I  'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

I  "ve  been  to  Bath  and  Cheltenham  Wells, 

But  not  their  springs  to  sip — 

To  Ramsgate — not  to  pick  up  shells — 

To  Brighton — not  to  dip, 

I  "ve  toured  the  Lakes,  and  scoured  the  coast 

From  Scarboro'  to  Torquay — 

But  tho'  of  time  I  've  made  the  most, 

I  "m  going  to  Bombay  ! 

By  Pa  and  Ma  I  'm  daily  told 

To  marry  now 's  my  time, 

For  though  I  'm  very  for  from  old, 

I  'm  rather  in  my  prime. 

They  say  while  we  have  any  sun 

We  ought  to  make  our  hay — ■ 

And  India  has  so  hot  an  one, 

I  "m  going  to  Bombay  ! 

My  cousin  writes  from  Hyderapot, 
My  only  cliance  to  snatch. 


190  I  \m    GOINJ    to    BOMBAY. 

And  says  the  climate  is  so  hot, 

It 's  sure  to  light  a  match — 

She 's  married  to  a  son  of  Mars 

With  very  handsome  pay, 

And  swears  I  ought  to  thank  my  stars 

I  'm  going  to  Bombay ! 

She  says  that  I  shall  much  delight 

To  taste  their  Indian  treats, 

But  what  she  likes  may  turn  me  quite, 

Their  strange  outlandish  meats — . 

If  I  can  eat  rupees,  who  knows  ? 

Or  dine,  the  Indian  way, 

On  doolies  and  on  bungalows — ■ 

I  'm  going  to  Bombay ! 

She  says  that  I  shall  much  enjoy — > 

I  don't  know  what  she  means — 

To  take  the  air  and  buy  some  toy 

In  my  own  palankeens — 

I  like  to  drive  my  pony-chair, 

Or  ride  our  daj^ple  gray — 

But  elephants  are  horses  there — 

I  'm  going  to  Bombay  I 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  parents  dear, 

My  friends,  farewell  to  them  I 

And  oh,  what  costs  a  sadder  tear 

Good-bye,  to  Mr.  M. ! — 

If  I  should  find  an  Indian  vault, 

Or  fall  a  tiger's  prey. 

Or  steep  in  salt,  it 's  all  his  fault, 

I  'm  going  to  Bombay ! 


SONNET   TO    A    DECAYED    SEAMAN.  191 

That  fine  new  teak-built  ship,  the  Fox, 

A.  1. — Commander  Bird, 

Now  lying  in  the  London  Docks, 

Will  sail  on  ^laj  the  Third ; 

Aj^ply  for  passage  or  for  freight, 

To  Nichol,  Scott,  and  Gray — 

Pa  has  applied  and  sealed  my  fate — 

I  'm  going  to  Bombay ! 

I\Iy  heart  is  full— my  trunks  as  well ; 

ISIy  mind  and  caps  made  up, 

My  corsets,  shaped  by  Mrs.  Bell, 

Are  promised  ere  I  sup ; 

With  boots  and  shoes,  Rivarta's  best, 

And  Dresses  by  Duce, 

And  a  special  license  in  my  chest — 

I  'm  going  to  Bombay ! 


SONNET  TO  A  DECAYED  SEAMAN. 

Hail  !  seventy-four  cut  down  !  Hail,  Top  and  Lop ! 

L'nless  I  'm  much  mistaken  in  my  notion, 
Thou  wast  a  stirring  Tar,  before  that  hop 

Became  so  fatal  to  thy  locomotion : — 
Now,  thrown  on  shore,  like  a  mere  weed  of  ocean, 

Thou  readest  still  to  men  a  lesson  good, 
To  King  and  Country  showing  thy  devotion 

By  kneeling  thus  upon  a  stump  of  wood ! 
Still  is  thy  spirit  strong  as  alcohol ; 

Spite  of  that  limb,  begot  of  acorn-egg — 
Methinks — thou  Kaval  History  in  one  Vol. — 

A  virtue  shines,  «'en  in  that  timber  leg, 
For  unlike  others  that  desert  their  Poll. 

Thou  walkest  ever  with  thy  '•  Constant  Peg!" 


192  A   BLOW-UP. 


A  BLOW-UP. 

"  Here  we  go  up,  np,  up." — ^The  Lat  of  the  Fiest  Mjnstbei. 

Near  Battle,  Mr.  Peter  Baker 

Was  Powder-maker, 
Not  Alderman  Flower's  flour — the  white  that  puffs 
And  primes  and  loads  heads  bald,  or  grey,  or  chowder, 
Figgins  and  Higgins,  Fippins,  Filbj — Crowder, 
Not  vile  a,pothecary's  pounded  stuffs. 
But  something  blacker,  bloodier  and  louder — 

Gun-powder ! 

This  stuff,  as  people  know,  is  setnpe?' 
Eadejii ;  very  hasty  in  its  temper — 
Like  Honor  that  resents  the  gentlest  taps, 
Mere  semblances  of  blows,  however  slight ; 
So  powder  fires,  although  you  only  p'rhaps 

Strike  light. 
To  make  it,  therefore,  is  a  ticklish  business, 
And  sometimes  gives  both  head  and  heart  a  dizziness. 
For  as  all  human  flash  and  fancy  minders. 
Frequenting  fights  and  Powder-works  well  know, 
There  seldom  is  a  mill  without  a  blow 
Sometimes  upon  the  grinders. 
But  then — the  melancholy  phrase  to  soften, 
]Mr.  B.'s  mill  transpired  so  very  often  ! 
And  advertised — then  all  Price  Currents  louder, 
"  Fragments  look  up — there  is  a  rise  in  Powder," 
So  frequently,  it  caused  the  neighbors'  wonder — 
And  certain  people  had  the  inhumanity 
To  lay  it  all  to  ]Mr.  Baker's  vanity. 
That  he  might  have  to  say — "  That  was  my  thunder  !"^ 


A    BLOW-UP. 


193 


One  daj — so  goes  the  tale, 

"VMiether,  vrith  iron  hoof 

Not  sparkle-proof, 
Some  ninnj-hammer  struck  upon  a  nail — 
Whether  some  glow-worm  of  the  Guy  Faux  stamp, 
Crept  in  the  building,  with  Unsafety  Lamp — 
One  day  this  mill  that  had  by  water  ground, 
Became  a  sort  of  windmill  and  blew  round. 
With  bounce  that  went  in  sound  as  far  as  Dover,  it 
Sent  half  the  workmen  sprawling  to  the  sky ; 
Besides  some  visitors  who  gained  thereby 
■\Yhat  they  had  asked — permission  ••  to  go  over  it  I'" 
Of  coui-se  it  was  a  very  hard  and  high  blow. 
And  somewhat  tliffered  from  what  "s  called  a  flyblow. 
At  Cowes"  Regatta,  as  I  once  observed, 
A  pistol-shot  made  twenty  vessels  start : 
If  such  a  sound  could  terrify  oak's  heart. 
Think  how  this  crash  the  human  nerve  unnerved. 
In  fact,  it  was  a  very  awful  thing — 
As  people  know  that  have  been  used  to  battle, 
In  springing  either  mine  or  mill,  you  spring 

A  precious  rattle ! 
The  dunniest  heard  it — poor  old  'Sir.  F. 
Doubted  for  once  if  he  was  ever  deaf: 
Through  Tunbridge  town  it  caused  most  strange  alarms, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fogg, 

Who  lived  like  cat  and  dog, 
Were  shocked  for  once  into  each  other's  arms. 
Miss  M.  the  milliner,  her  fi-ight  so  strong, 
:Made  a  great  gobble-stitch  six  inches  long ; 
The  veriest  quakers  quaked  against  their  wish  : 
The  ••  Best  of  Sons"'  was  taken  unawares, 
And  kicked  the  ••  Best  of  Parents"'  down  the  stairs  : 


194  A    BLOW-UP. 

The  steadiest  servant  dropped  the  China  dish ; 
A  thousand  started,  though  there  was  but  one 
Fated  to  win,  and  that  was  Mister  Dunn, 
Who  struck  convulsively,  and  hooked  a  fish ! 

Miss  Wiggins,  with  some  grass  upon  her  fork, 
Tossed  it  just  like  a  ha-j-maker  at  work ; 
Her  sister  not  in  any  better  case, 

For  taking  wine, 

With  nervous  Mr.  Pjne, 
He  jerked  his  glass  of  Sherry  in  her  face. 

Poor  Mistress  Davy, 
Bobbed  off  her  bran-new  turban  in  the  gravy ; 
While  Mr.  Davy  at  the  lower  end. 
Preparing  for  a  Goose  a  carver's  labor, 
Darted  his  two-pronged  weapon  in  his  neighbor, 
As  if  for  once  he  meant  to  help  a  friend. 

The  nurse-maid  telling  little  "  Jack-a-Norey, " 
"  Bo-peep"  and  "  Blue-cap"  at  the  house's  top. 
Screamed,  and  let  Master  Jeremiah  drop 

From  a  fourth  story  ! 
Nor  yet  did  matters  any  better  go 
With  Cook  and  Housemaid  in  the  realms  below  • 
As  for  the  Laundress,  timid  Martha  Gunning, 
Expressing  faintness  and  her  fear  by  fits 
And  starts — she  came  at  last  but  to  her  wits 
By  falling  in  the  ale  that  John  left  running. 

Grave  Mr.  Miles,  the  meekest  of  mankind, 
Struck  all  at  once,  deaf,  stupid,  dumb,  and  blind. 
Sat  in  his  chaise  some  moments  like  a  corse, 

Then  coming  to  his  mind, 

Was  shocked  to  find 


A    BLOW-UP.  195 

Only  a  pair  ot  shafts  without  a  horse. 

Out  scrambled  all  the  jNlisses  from  Miss  Joy's ! 

From  Prospect  House,  for  urchins  small  and  big, 
Hearing  the  awful  noise, 
Out  rushed  a  flood  of  boys, 

Floatinor  a  man  in  black,  without  a  wio- : — 

Some  carried  out  one  treasure,  some  another — 
Some  caught  their  tops  and  taws  up  in  a  hurry, 
Same  saved  Chambaud,  some  rescued  Lindley  Murray — 

But  little  Tiddy  carried  his  big  brother ! 

Sick  of  such  terrors, 
The  Tunbridge  folks  resolved  that  truth  should  dwell 
No  longer  secret  in  a  Tunbridcre  Well, 
But  to  warn  Baker  of  his  dangerous  errors  ; 
Accordingly,  to  bring  the  point  to  pass, 
They  called  a  meeting  of  the  broken  glass, 
The  shattered  chimney-pots,  and  scattered  tiles, 

The  damage  of  each  part, 

And  packed  it  in  a  cart 
Drawn  by  the  horse  that  ran  from  ISIr.  ISIiles ; 
WTiile  Doctor  Babblethorpe,  the  worthy  Rector, 
And  Mr.  Gammage,  cutler  to  George  Rex, 
And  some  few  more,  whose  names  would  only  vex, 
Went  as  a  deputation  to  the  Ex- 
Powder-proprietor  and  Mill-director. 

Now  Mr.  Baker's  dwelling-house  had  pleased 

Along  with  mill-materials  to' roam. 

And  for  a  time  the  deputies  were  teased 

To  find  the  noisy  gentleman  at  home ; 

At  last  they  found  him  with  undamaged  skin. 

Safe  at  the  Tunbridge  Arms — not  out — but  Inn. 


196  A   BLOW-UP. 

The  worthy  Rector,  with  uncommon  zeal, 
Soon  put  his  spoke  in  for  the  common  weal — 
A  grave  old  gentlemanly  kind  of  Urban — 
The  piteous  tale  of  Jeremiah  moulded, 

And  then  unfolded, 
By  way  of  climax,  Mrs.  Davy's  turban  ; 
He  told  how  auctioneering  Mr.  Pidding 

Knocked  down  a  lot  without  a  bidding — 
How  Mr.  Miles,  in  a  fright,  had  given  his  mare 

The  whip  she  would  n't  bear — 
At  Prospect  House,  how  Doctor  Gates,  not  Titus, 

Danced  like  St.  Vitus — 
And  Mr.  Beak,  thro'  Powder's  misbehaving, 

Cut  off  his  nose  whilst  shaving ; — 
When  suddenly,  with  words  that  seemed  like  swearing, 
Beyond  a  Licenser's  belief  or  bearing — 
Broke  in  the  stuttering,  sputtering  Mr.  Gammage — 
Who  is  to  pay  us.  Sir — he  argued  thus, 
"For  loss  of  cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus — 
Cus-custom,  and  the  dam-dam-dam-dam-damage  ?" 

Now  many  a  person  had  been  ftiirly  puzzled 
By  such  assailants,  and  completely  muzzled ; 
Baker,  however,  was  not  dashed  with  ease — 
But  proved  he  practised  after  their  own  system, 
And  with  small  ceremony  soon  dismissed  'em. 
Putting  these  words  into  their  ears  like  fleas  ; 
"  If  I  do  have  a  blow,  well,  where 's  the  oddity? 
I  merely  do  as  other  tradesmen  do. 

You,  Sir — and  you — and  you  I 
I  'm  only  puffing  off  my  own  commodity  !'* 


A    TRUE   STORY.  197 


A  TRUE   STORY. 


Whoe'er  has  seen  upon  the  human  face 
The  yellow  jaundice  and  the  jaundice  black. 
May  form  a  notion  of  old  Colonel  Case 
"With  nigger  Pompey  waiting  at  his  back. 

Case — as  the  case  is,  many  times  with  folks 
From  hot  Bengal,  Calcutta,  or  Bombay, 
Had  tmt  his  tint,  as  Scottish  tongues  would  say, 
And  showed  two  cheeks  as  yellow  as  eggs'  yolks. 
Pompey.  the  chip  of  some  old  ebon  block, 
In  hue  was  like  his  master's  stiff  cravat, 
And  might  indeed  have  claimed  akin  to  that, 
Coming,  as  he  did,  of  an  old  black  stock. 

Case  wore  the  liver's  livery  that  such 
Must  wear,  their  past  excesses  to  denote. 
Like  Greenwich  pensioners  that  take  too  much, 
And  then  do  penance  in  a  yellow  coat. 
Pompey's,  a  deep  and  permanent  jet  dyej 
A  stain  of  nature's  staining — one  of  those 
AVe  call  fast  colors — merely,  I  suppose. 
Because  such  colors  never  ffo  or  Jli/. 

Pray  mark  this  difference  of  dark  and  sallow, 
Pompey's  black  husk,  and  the  old  Colonel's  yellow. 

The  Colonel,  once  a  pennyless  beginner, 
From  a  long  Indian  rubber  rose  a  winner, 
With  plenty  of  pagodas  in  his  pocket. 
And  homeward  turning  his  Hibernian  thought. 
Deemed  Wickhw  was  the  very  place  that  ought 
To  harbor  one  whose  ivick  was  in  the  socket. 


198  A   TRUE    STORY. 

Unhappily  for  Case's  scheme  of  quiet, 
Wicklow  just  then  was  in  a  pretty  riot, 
A  fact  recorded  in  each  day's  diumals, 
Things  Case  was  not  accustomed  to  peruse, 

Careless  of  news ; 
But  Pompey  always  read  these  bloody  journals, 
Full  of  Killmany  and  of  Killmore  work, 
The  freaks  of  some  O'Shaunessy's  shillaly. 
Of  mornings  frays  by  some  O'Brien  Burke, 
Or  horrid  nightly  outrage  by  some  Daly  ; 
How  scums  deserving  of  the  Devil" s  ladle, 
Would  fall  upon  the  harmless  scull  and  knock  it, 
And  if  he  found  an  infant  in  the  cradle, 
Stern  Rock  would  hardly  hesitate  to  rock  it ; — 
In  feet,  he  read  of  burner  and  of  killer, 
And  Irish  ravage,  day  after  day, 
Till,  haunting  in  his  dreams,  he  used  to  say 
That  -'Pompey  could  not  sleep  on  Pompeifs  Pillar  J"* 

Judge  then  the  horror  of  the  nigger's  face 

To  find — with  such  impressions  of  that  dire  land — 

That  Case — his  master — was  a  packing  case 

For  Ireland ! 
He  saw,  in  fearful  reveries  arise, 
Phantasmagorias  of  those  dreadful  men 
WTiose  fame  associate  with  Irish  plots  is, 
Fitzge raids — Tones — 0'  Connors — Hares — and  then 
"  Those  Emmets,'^  not  so  "  little  in  his  eyes" 

As  Doctor  Watts' s  ! 
He  felt  himself  piked,  roasted — carved  and  hacked, 
His  big  black  burly  body  seemed  in  fact 
A  pmcushion  for  Terror's  pins  and  needles — 
Oh,  how  he  wished  himself  beneath  the  sun 


A   TRUE   STORY.  199 

Of  Afric — or  m  far  Barljadoes — one 

Of  Bishop  Coleridge's  new  black  beadles. 

Full  of  his  fright, 
With  broken  peace  and  broken  English  choking, 
As  black  as  any  raven,  and  as  croaking, 
Pompej  rushed  in  upon  his  master's  sight, 
Plumped  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  sable  digits, 
Thus  stirring  Curiosity's  sharp  fidgets — 
"  0  Massa  ! — Massa! — Colonel !— Ma ssa  Case  : — 
Not  go  to  Ireland  ! — Ireland  dam  bad  place  ; 
Dem  take  our  bloods — dem  Irish — every  drop — 
Oh  why  for  Massa  go  so  far  a  distance 

To  have  him  life  '?"" Here  Pompey  made  a  stop 

Putting  an  awful  period  to  existence. 

"  Not  go  to  Ireland — not  to  Ireland,  fellow. 

And  murdered — why  should  I  be  murdered.  Sirrah?" 

Cried  Case,  with  anger's  tinge  upon  his  yellow —  ; 

Pompey,  for  answer,  pointing  in  a  mm-or 

The  Colonel's  saffron,  and  his  own  japan, — 

""Well,  what  has  that  to  do — quick — speak  outright, 

boy?"' 
"  0  Massa" — (so  the  explanation  ran) 
"  Massa  be  killed — 'cause  Massa  Orange  Man, 
And   Pompey  killed — 'cause   Pompey  not  a   White 

Boy  r 


200        THERE  'S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT. 


THERE'S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT! 

"  80  while  I  fondly  imagined  we  were  deceiving  my  relations,  and  flattered  myself 
that  I  should  outwit  and  incense  them  all;  behold,  my  hopes  are  to  be  crushed  at  once, 
by  my  aunt's  consent  and  approbation,  and  I  am  myself  the  only  dupe.  But  here,  Sir, 
— here  is  the  picture!" — Lydia  Langcisu. 

0  DAYS  of  old,  0  days  of  Knights, 
Of  tourneys  and  of  tilts, 

Wherulove  was  balked  and  valor  stalked 

On  high  heroic  stilts — 
Where  are  ye  gone  ? — adventures  cease, 
r  The  world  gets  tame  and  flat — 

We  've  nothing  now  but  New  Police — 
There 's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

1  wish  I  ne'er  had  learned  to  read, 
Or  Radcliffe  how  to  write  ; 

That  Scott  had  been  a  boor  on  Tweed, 

And  Lewis  cloistered  quite  ! 
Would  I  had  never  drank  so  deep 

Of  dear  Miss  Porter's  vat ; 
I  only  turn  to  life,  and  weep — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

No  Bandits  lurk — no  turbaned  Turk 

To  Tunis  bears  me  off — 
I  hear  no  noises  in  the  night 

Except  my  mother's  cough — 
No  Bleeding  Spectre  haunts  the  house, 

No  shape — but  owl  or  bat, 
Come  flitting  after  moth  or  mouse — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 


THERE  'S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT. 

I  have  not  any  grief  profound, 

Or  secrets  to  confess, 
My  story  would  not  fetch  a  pound 

For  A.  K.  Newman's  press ; 
Instead  of  looking  thin  and  pale, 

I  'm  growing  red  and  fat, 
As  if  I  lived  on  beef  and  ale — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

It 's  very  hard,  by  land  or  sea 

Some  strange  event  I  court, 
But  nothing  ever  comes  to  me 

That 's  worth  a  pen's  report : 
It  really  made  my  temper  chafe. 

Each  coast  that  I  was  at, 
I  vowed,  and  railed,  and  came  home  safe — 

There  's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

The  only  time  I  had  a  chance 

At  Brighton  one  fine  day. 
My  chestnut  mare  began  to  prance, 

Took  fright,  and  ran  away  ; 
Alas  !  no  Captain  of  the  Tenth 
"To  stop  my  steed  came  pat ; 
A  Butcher  caught  the  rein  at  length — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

Love — even  love — goes  smoothly  on 
A  railway  sort  of  track — 

No  flinty  sire,  no  jealous  Don  ! 
No  hearts  upon  the  rack  ; 

No  Polydore,  no  Theodore — 
His  ugly  name  is  Mat, 

Plain  Matthew  Pratt  and  nothing  more- 
There 's  no  Romance  in  that ! 
9* 


201 


202        THERE  "S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT. 

He  is  not  dark,  he  is  not  tall — 

His  forehead  's  rather  lo-^. 
He  is  not  pensive — not  at  all, 

But  smiles  his  teeth  to  sho-vr ; 
He  comes  from  Wales  and  yet  in  size 

Is  really  but  a  sprat ; 
With  sandy  hair  and  greyish  eyes — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

He  wears  no  plumes  or  Spanish  cloaks, 

Or  long  sword  hanging  down ; 
He  dresses  much  like  other  folks, 

And  commonly  in  brown  ; 
His  collar  he  will  not  discard, 

Or  give  up  his  cravat, 
Lord  Byron-like — he  "s  not  a  Bard — 

There  's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

He 's  rather  bald,  his  sight  is  weak. 

He  "s  deaf  in  either  drum  ; 
Without  a  lisp  he  cannot  speak, 

But  then — he  "s  worth  a  plum. 
He  talks  of  stocks  and  three  per  cents, 

By  way  of  private  chat, 
Of  Spanish  Bonds,  and  shares,  and  rents — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

I  sing — no  matter  what  I  sing, 

Di  Tanti — or  Crudel, 
Tom  Bowling,  or  God  save  the  King, 

Di  piacer — All's  well : 
He  knows  no  more  about  a  voice 

For  singing  than  a  gnat — 
And  as  to  Music  •■  has  no  choice" — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 


TIIEr.E 


XD  rvOr.iAxcE  ix  that. 


203 


Of  llijliL  guitar  I  cannot  boast, 

•    He  never  serenades  ; 

He  writes,  and  sends  it  by  the  post, 

He  does  n't  bribe  the  maids  : 
No  stealth,  no  hempen  ladder — no  I 

He  comes  with  loud  rat-tat 
That  startles  half  of  Bedford  Row — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

He  comes  at  nine  in  time  to  choose 
His  coffee — just  two  cups, 

And  talks  with  Pa  about  the  news, 
Repeats  debates,  and  sups. 

John  helps  him  with  his  coat  aright, 
And  Jenkins  hands  his  hat ; 

My  lover  bows  and  says  good  night- 
There 's  no  Romance  in  that! 


I  've  long  had  Pa's  and  Ma's  consent, 

My  aunt  she  quite  approves, 
My  Brother  wishes  joy  from  Kent, 

None  try  to  thwart  our  loves ; 
On  Tuesday  reverend  Mr.  Mace 

Will  make  me  Mrs.  Pratt, 
Of  Number  Twenty,  Sussex  Place — - 

There '.s  no  Romance  in  that." 


204  THE  schoolmaster's  motto. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  MOTTO. 

"The  Admiral  compelled  them  all  to  strike."— Life  of  Neison. 

Hush  !  silence  in  School — not  a  noise  ! 

You  shall  soon  see  there  's  nothing  to  jeer  at. 
Master  Marsh,  most  audacious  of  boys  ! 

Come  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

So  this  morn,  in  the  midst  of  the  Psalm, 
The  Miss  Siflfkins's  school  you  must  leer  at. 

You  're  complained  of — Sir  !  hold  out  your  palm- 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

You  Avilful  young  rebel,  and  dunce ! 

This  offence  all  your  sins  shall  appear  at, 
You  shall  have  a  good  caning  at  once— 

There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat .'" 

You  are  backward,  you  know,  in  each  verb. 
And  your  pronouns  you  are  not  more  clear  at, 

But  you  're  forward  enough  to  disturb — 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !' 


P' 


You  said  Master  Twigg  stole  the  plums. 
When  the  orchard  he  never  was  near  at, 

I  '11  not  punish  wrong  fingers  or  thumbs — 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

You  make  Master  Taylor  your  butt. 

And  this  morning  his  face  you  threw  beer  at, 

And  you  struck  him — do  you  like  a  cut? 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat!" 


THE   schoolmaster's   MOTTO.  205 

Little  Biddle  jou  likewise  distress, 

You  are  always  his  hair,  or  his  ear  at — 

He 's  mj  Opt^  Sir,  and  you  are  my  Pess : 
There  I — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat!" 

Then  you  had  a  pitcht  fight  with  young  Rous, 

An  offence  I  am  always  severe  at ! 
You  discredit  to  Cicero-House ! 

There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat!" 

You  have  made,  too,  a  plot  in  the  night 

To  run  off  from  the  school  that  you  rear  at  I 

Come,  your  other  hand,  now.  Sir — the  right, 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat!" 

I  '11  teach  you  to  draw,  you  young  dog  I 

Such  pictures  as  I  'm  looking  here  at ! 
"  Old  Mounsecr  making  soup  of  a  frog," 

There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

You  have  run  up  a  hill  at  a  shop 

That  in  paying  you  '11  be  a  whole  year  at — 

You  've  but  twopence  a  week.  Sir,  to  stop  I 
There! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat!" 

Then  at  dinner  you  're  quite  cock-a-hoop, 
And  the  soup  you  are  certain  to  sneer  at — 

I  have  sipped  it — it 's  very  good  soup — 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

T'  other  day,  when  I  fell  o'er  the  form. 
Was  my  tumble  a  thing,  Sir,  to  cheer  at? 

Well  for  you  that  my  temper 's  not  warm — • 
There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 


206  HUGGINS  AND    DUGGINS. 

Why,  you  rascal  I  you  insolent  brat ! 

All  my  talking  you  don't  shed  a  tear  at, 
There — take  that,  Sir !  and  that !  that !  and  that  I 

There ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 


HUGGINS  AND   DUGGINS. 

A   PASTORAL   AFTER   POPE. 

Two  swains  or  clowns — but  call  them  swains — 

Wliile  keeping  flocks  on  Salisbury  Plains, 

For  all  that  tend  on  sheep  as  drovers 

Are  turned  to  songsters,  or  to  lovers, 

Each  of  the  lass  he  called  his  dear 

Began  to  carol  loud  and  clear. 

First  Huggins  sang,  and  Duggins  then,    • 

In  the  way  of  ancient  shepherd  men  ; 

Who  thus  alternate  hitched  in  song, 

"  All  things  by  turns,  and  nothing  long." 

HUGGINS. 

Of  all  the  girls  about  our  place, 
There's  one  beats  all  in  form  and  face  ; 
Search  through  all  Great  and  Little  Bumpstead, 
You  '11  only  find  one  Peggy  Plumstead, 

DUGGINS. 

To  groves  and  streams  I  tell  my  flame, 
I  make  the  clifis  repeat  her  name : 
When  I  'm  inspired  by  gills  and  noggins. 
The  rocks  re-echo  Sally  Hoggins  ! 


HUGGIXS   AND    DUGGINS.  207 

HUGGIXS. 

^Micn  I  am  walking  in  the  grove, 
I  think  of  Peggj  as  I  rove. 
I  'd  carve  her  name  on  every  tree, 
But  I  don't  know  my  A,  B,  C. 

DUGGIXS. 

Whether  I  walk  in  hill  or  valley, 
I  think  of  nothing  else  but  Sally. 
I  'd  sing  her  praise,  but  I  <mn  sing 
No  song,  except  "  God  save  the  King." 

HUGGINS. 

My  Peggy  does  all  nymphs  excel, 
And  all  confess  she  bears  the  bell : — 
Wherever  she  goes  swains  flock  together, 
Like  sheep  that  follow  the  bellwether. 

DUGGIXS. 
Sally  is  tall  and  not  too  straight — 
Those  very  poplar  shapes  I  hate ; 
But  something  twisted  like  an  S — 
A  crook  becomes  a  shepherdess. 

IIUGGIXS. 

When  Peggy's  dog  her  arms  emprison, 
I  often  wish  my  lot  was  hisn  : 
How  often  I  should  stand  and  turn, 
To  get  a  pat  from  hands  like  hern. 

DUGGIXS. 

I  tell  SalVs  lambs  how  blest  they  be, 

To  stand  about  and  stare  at  she ; 

But  when  I  look,  she  turns  and  shies. 

And  won't  lear  none  but  their  sheep's-eyes  1 


208  HUGGINS   AND    DUGQINS. 

HUGGINS. 

Love  goes  with  Peggy  where  she  goes — 
Beneath  her  smile  the  garden  grows  ; 
Potatoes  spring,  and  cabbage  starts, 
'Tatoes  have  eyes,  and  cabbage  hearts ! 

DUG  GINS. 

Where  Sally  goes  it  "s  always  Spring, 
Her  presence  brightens  every  thing ; 
The  sun  smiles  hj'ight,  but  where  her  grin  is, 
It  makes  brass  farthings  look  like  guineas. 

HUGGINS. 

For  Peggy  I  can  have  no  joy. 
She  's  sometimes  kind,  and  sometimes  coy, 
And  keeps  me,  by  her  wayward  tricks, 
As  comfortless  as  sheep  with  ticks. 

DUGGINS. 

Sally  is  ripe  as  June  or  ]May, 
And  yet  as  cold  as  Christmas  day ; 
For  when  she  "s  asked  to  change  her  lot, 
Lamb's  wool — but  Sally,  she  wool  not. 

HUGGINS. 

Only  with  Peggy  and  with  health, 
I  'd  never  wish  for  state  or  wealth ; 
Talking  of  having  health  and  more  pence, 
I  'd  drink  her  health  if  I  had  fourpence. 

DUGGINS. 

Oh,  how  that  day  would  seem  to  shine. 
If  Sally's  banns  were  read  with  mine : 
She  cries,  when  such  a  wish  I  carry, 
"  Marry  come  up  !"  but  will  not  marry. 


A   STORM   AT   HASTINGS, 

AND  THE  LITTLE  UNKNOWN. 


'T  WAS  August — Hastings  every  day  was  filling — 
Hastings,  that  "  greenest  spot  on  memory's  waste  !' 
With  crowds  of  idlers  willing  or  unwilling 
To  be  bedipped — be  noticed — or  be  braced, 
And  all  things  rose  a  penny  in  a  shilling. 
Meanwhile,  from  window  and  from  door,  in  haste 
''  Accommodation  bills"  kept  coming  down. 
Gladding  "  the  world  of  letters"  in  that  town. 

Each  day  poured  in  new  coach-fulls  of  new  cits, 
Flying  from  London  smoke  and  dust  annoying, 
Umnarried  Misses  hoping  to  make  hits. 
And  new- wed  couples  fresh  from  Tunbridge  toying. 
Lacemen  and  placemen,  ministers  and  wits, 
And  quakers  of  both  sexes,  much  enjoying 
A  morning's  reading  by  the  ocean's  rim, 
That  sect  delightmg  in  the  sea"  s  broad  brim. 

And  lo !  amongst  all  these  appeared  a  creature 
So  small,  he  almost  might  a  twin  have  been 
With  r.Iiss  Crachami — dwarfish  quite  in  stature, 
Yet  well  proportioned — neither  fat  nor  lean, 


210 


A   STORM   AT   HASTINGS. 


His  face  of  marvellously  pleasant  feature, 
So  short  and  sweet  a  man  was  never  seen — 
All  thought  him  charming  at  the  first  beginning — 
Alas,  ere  long  they  found  him  far  too  winning  ! 

He  seemed  in  love  with  chance — and  chance  repaid 

His  ardent  passion  with  her  fondest  smile. 

The  sunshine  of  good  luck,  without  a  shade. 

He  staked  and  won — and  won  and  staked — the  bile 

It  stirred  of  many  a  man  and  many  a  maid, 

To  see  at  every  venture  how  that  vile 

Small  gambler  snatched — and  how  he  won  them  too— 

A  living  Pam,  omnipotent  at  loo ! 

Miss  Wiggins  set  her  heart  upon  a  box, 

'T  was  handsome,  rosewood,  and  inlaid  with  brass. 

And  dreamt  three  times  she  garnished  it  with  stocks 

Of  needles,  silks,  and  cottons — hut  alas  ! 

She  lost  it  wide  awake. — "We  thought  Miss  Cox 

Was  lucky — but  she  saw  three  caddies  pass 

To  that  small  imp : — no  lidng  luck  could  loo  him  ! 

Sir  Stamford  would  have  lost  his  Raffles  to  him ! 

And  so  he  climbed — and  rode,  and  won — and  walked^ 
The  wondi-ous  topic  of  the  curious  swarm 
That  haunted  the  Parade.     Many  were  balked 
Of  notoriety  by  that  small  form 
Pacino-  it  up  and  down : — some  even  talked 
Of  ducking  him — when  lo !  a  dismal  storm 
Stepped  in — one  Friday,  at  the  close  of  day — 
And  every  head  was  turned  another  way — 

Watching  the  grander  guest.     It  seemed  to  rise 
Bulky  and  slow  upon  the  southern  brink 


A   STOBM   AT   HASTINGS.  211 

Of  the  horizon — fanned  by  sultry  sighs — 
So  black  and  threatening,  I  cannot  think 
Of  any  simile,  except  the  skies 
jNIiss  Y\  io;o;ins  sometime  shades  in  Indian  ink — 
i):/iss-shapen  blotches  of  such  heavy  vapor, 
They  seem  a  deal  more  solid  than  her  paper. 

As  for  the  sea,  it  did  not  fret,  and  rave, 
And  tear  its  waves  to  tatters,  and  so  dash  on 
The  stony-hearted  beach  ; — some  bards  would  have 
It  always  rampant,  in  that  idle  fashion — 
^"^Tiereas  the  waves  rolled  in,  subdued  and  grave, 
Like  schoolboys,  when  the  master's  in  a  passion, 
Who  meekly  settle  in  and  take  their  places, 
With  a  very  quiet  awe  on  all  their  faces. 

Some  love  to  draw  the  ocean  with  a  head, 
Like  troubled  table-beer — and  make  it  bounce. 
And  froth,  and  roar,  and  fling — but  this,  I  've  said, 
Surged  in  scarce  rougher  than  a  lady's  flounce : — 
But  then,  a  grander  contrast  thus  it  bred 
With  the  wild  welkin,  seeming  to  pronounce 
Something  more  awful  in  the  serious  ear. 
As  one  v>'ould  whisper  that  a  lion's  near — 

TMio  just  begins  to  roar  :  so  the  hoarse  thunder 
Growled  long — but  low — a  prelude  note  of  death, 
As  if  the  stifling  clouds  yet  kept  it  under ; 
But  still  it  muttered  to  the  sea  beneath 
Such  a  continued  peal,  as  made  us  wonder 
It  did  not  pause  more  oft  to  take  its  breath, 
Whilst  we  were  panting  with  the  sultry  weather. 
And  hardly  cared  to  wed  two  words  together, 


212  A   STORM   AT   HASTINGS. 

But  watched  the  surly  advent  of  the  storm, 
Much  as  the  brown-cheeked  planters  of  Barbadoes 
Must  Tvatch  a  risino;  of  the  Negro  swarm  : — 
Meantime  it  steered,  like  Odin"s  old  Armadas, 
Right  on  our  coast ; — a  dismal,  coal-black  form ; — 
Blany  proud  gaits  were  quelled — and  all  bravadoes 
Of  folly  ceased — and  sundry  idle  jokers 
Went  home  to  cover  up  theu'  tongs  and  pokers. 

So  fierce  the  lightning  flashed. — In  all  their  days 
The  oldest  smugglers  had  not  seen  such  flashing, 
And  they  are  used  to  many  a  pretty  blaze, 
To  keep  their  Hollands  from  an  awkward  clashing 
With  hostile  cutters  in  our  creeks  and  bays : — 
And  truly  one  could  think,  without  much  lashing 
The  fancy,  that  those  coasting  clouds  so  awful 
And  black,  were  fraught  with  spuits  as  unlawful. 

The  gay  Parade  grew  thin — all  the  fair  crowd 
Vanished — as  if  they  knew  their  own  attractions — 
For  now  the  lightning  through  a  near  hand  cloud 
Began  to  make  some  very  crooked  fractions — 
Only  some  few  remained  that  were  not  cowed, 
A  few  rough  sailors,  who  had  been  in  actions, 
And  sundry  boatmen,  that  with  quick  yeo's. 
Lest  it  should  blon- — were  pulling  up  the  Rose : 

(No  flower,  but  a  boat) — some  more  hauling 
The  Regent  by  the  head  : — another  crew 
With  that  same  cry  peculiar  to  their  calling — 
Were  hea\ang  up  the  Hope : — and  as  they  knew 
The  very  gods  themselves  oft  get  a  mauling 
In  their  own  realms,  the  seamen  wisely  di'ew 
The  Neptune  rather  higher  on  the  beach, 
That  he  might  lie  beyond  his  billows'  reach. 


A    STORM   AT    HASTINGS-  213 

And  now  the  storm,  "vrith  its  despotic  power, 
Had  all  usurped  the  azure  of  the  skies, 
Making  our  daylight  darker  by  an  houi", 
And  some  few  drops — of  an  unusual  size — 
Few  and  distinct — scarce  twenty  to  the  shower, 
Fell  like  huge  tear-drops  from  a  Giant's  eyes — 
But  then  this  sprinkle  thickened  in  a  trice 
And  rained  much  Itarder — in  good  solid  ice. 

Oh  !  for  a  very  stoim  of  words  to  show 
How  this  fierce  crash  of  hail  came  rushing  o'er  us ! 
Handel  would  make  the  gusty  organs  blow 
Grandly,  and  a  rich  storm  in  music  score  us ; — 
But  even  his  music  seemed  composed  and  low 
^Yhen  we  were  handled  by  this  Hailstone  Chorus ; 
A^Tiilst  thunder  rumbled,  with  its  awful  sound. 
And  frozen  comfits  rolled  along  the  ground — 

As  big  as  bullets  : — Lord  !  how  they  did  batter 
Our  crazy  tiles  : — And  now  the  lightning  flashed 
Alternate  with  the  dark,  until  the  latter 
Was  rarest  of  the  two  : — the  gust  too  dashed 
So  terribly,  I  thought  the  hail  must  shatter 
Some  panes — and  so  it  did— and  first  it  smashed 
The  very  square  where  I  had  chose  my  station 
To  watch  the  general  illumination. 

Another,  and  another,  still  came  in, 

And  fell  in  jingling  ruin  at  my  feet, 

Making  ti-ansparent  holes  that  let  me  win 

Some  samples  of  the  storm  : — Oh  !  it  was  sweet 

To  think  I  had  a  shelter  for  my  skin. 

Culling  them  through  these  '"  loopholes  of  retreat" — 

"Which  in  a  little  we  began  to  glaze — 

Chiefly  with  a  jacktowel  and  some  baize  ! 


214  A   STORM   AT   HASTINGS. 

Bj  which,  the  cloud  had  passed  o'erhead,  but  played 

Its  crooked  fires  in  constant  flashes  still, 

Just  in  our  rear,  as  though  it  had  arrayed 

Its  heavy  batteries  at  Fairlight  Mill, 

So  that  it  lit  the  town,  and  grandly  made 

The  ruo;a;ed  features  of  the  Castle  Hill 

Leap,  like  a  birth,  from  chaos,  into  light, 

And  then  relapse  into  the  gloomy  night — 

As  parcel  of  the  cloud  : — the  clouds  themselves, 
Like  monstrous  crags  and  summits  everlasting, 
Piled  each  on  each  in  most  gigantic  shelves. 
That  Milton's  devils  were  engaged  in  blasting. — 
We  could  e'en  fancy  Satan  and  his  elves 
Busy  upon  those  crags,  and  ever  casting 
Huge  fragments  loose— and  that  viofelt  the  sound 
They  made  in  falling  to  the  startled  ground. 

And  so  the  tempest  scowled  away— and  soon 
Timidly  shining  through  its  skirts  of  jet. 
We  saw  the  rim  of  the  pacific  moon, 
Like  a  bright  fish  entangled  in  a  net, 
Flashing  its  silver  sides — how  sweet  a  boon 
Seemed  her  sweet  light,  as  though  it  would  beget, 
With  that  fair  smile,  a  calm  upon  the  seas — : 
Peace  in  the  sky — and  coolness  in  the  breeze  ! 

Meantime  the  hail  had  ceased  : — and  all  the  brood 
Of  glaziers  stole  abroad  to  count  their  gains ; — • 
At  every  window,  there  were  maids  who  stood 
Lamenting  o'er  the  glass's  small  remains — 
Or  with  coarse  linens  made  the  fractions  good, 
Stanching  the  wind  in  all  the  wounded  panes — 
Or,  holding  candles  to  the  panes,  in  doubt : 
The  wind  resolved — blowing-  the  candles  out. 


A    STORM    AT   HASTINGS.  215 

No  house  was  whole  that  had  a  southern  front — 
No  green-house  but  the  same  mishap  befell ; — 
£o2^7-"windoTvs  and  6e/Z-glasses  bore  the  brunt — 

No  sex  in  glass  Tvas  spared ! For  those  who  dwell 

On  each  hill-side,  jou  might  have  swam  a  punt 
In  any  of  then*  parlors  ; — Mrs.  Snell 
Was  slopped  out  of  her  seat ;  and  Mr.  Hitchin 
Had  a  ^o?r<?/'-garden  washed  into  a  Kitchen. 

But  still  the  sea  was  mild,  and  quite  disclaimed 
The  recent  violence. — Each  after  each 
The  gentle  waves  a  gentle  murmur  fi-amed. 
Tapping,  like  Woodpeckers,  the  hollow  beach. 
Howbeit  his  weather  eye  the  seaman  aimed 
Across  the  calm,  and  hinted  by  his  speech 
A  gale  next  morning — and  when  morning  broke 
There  was  a  gale — "quite  equal  to  bespoke." 

Before  high  Avater — (it  were  better  far 
To  christen  it  not  water  then,  but  icaiier, 
For  then  the  tide  is  servitiff  at  the  bar^ 
Rose  such  a  swell — I  never  saw  one  greater ! 
Black,  jagged  billows  rearing  up  in  war 
Like  rattled,  roarino;  bears  against  the  baiter, 
"With  lots  of  froth  upon  the  shingle  shed, 
Like  stout  poured  out  with  a  fine  beachy  head. 

No  open  boat  was  open  to  a  fare, 
Or  launched  that  morn  on  seven-shilling  trips, 
No  bathing-woman  waded — none  would  dare 
A  dipping  in  the  wave — ^but  waived  their  dips, 
No  sea-gull  ventured  on  the  stormy  air, 
And  all  the  di'eary  coast  was  clear  of  ships ; 
For  two  lea  shores  upon  the  river  Lea 
Are  not  so  perilous  as  one  at  sea. 


216  A   STORM   AT   HASTINGS. 

Awe-struck  we  sat,  and  gazed  upon  the  scene 
Before  us  in  such  horrid  hurlj-burlj — 
A  boiling  ocean  of  mixed  black  and  green, 
A  sky  of  copper-color,  grim  and  surly — 
When  lo,  in  that  vast  hollow  scooped  between 
Two  rolling  Alps  of  water — white  and  curly  ! 
We  saw  a  pair  of  little  arms  a-skimming, 
Much  like  a  first  or  last  attempt  at  swimming ! 

Sometimes  a  hand — sometimes  a  little  shoe — 
Sometimes  a  skirt — sometimes  a  hank  of  hair 
Just  like  a  dabbled  seaweed  rose  to  view  ; 
Sometimes  a  knee,  sometimes  a  back  was  bare — 
At  last  a  frightful  summerset  he  threw 
Right  on  the  shingles.     Any  one  could  swear 
The  lad  was  dead — without  a  chance  of  perjury, 
And  battered  by  the  surge  beyond  all  surgery  ! 

However,  we  snatched  up  the  corse  thus  thrown, 
Intending,  Christian-like,  to  sod  and  turf  it, 
And  after  venting  Pity's  sigh  and  groan, 
Then  Curiosity  began  with  her  fit ; 
And  lo  !  the  features  of  the  Small  Unknown ! 
'Twas  he  that  of  the  surf  had  had  this  surfeit ! — 
And  in  his  fob,  the  cause  of  late  monopolies, 
We  found  a  contract  signed  Mephistophiles ! 

A  bond  of  blood,  whereby  the  sinner  gave 

His  forfeit  soul  to  Satan  in  reversion. 

Providing  in  this  world  he  was  to  have 

A  lordship  over  luck,  by  whose  exertion 

He  might  control  the  course  of  cards,  and  brave 

All  throws  of  dice — but  on  a  sea  excursion 

The  juggling  Demon,  in  his  usual  vein, 

Seized  the  last  cast — and  Nicked  him  in  the  main  ! 


LINES.  217 


LINES. 

TO  A  LADY   ON  HER  DEPAETTRE   FOR  IXDIA. 

Go  where  the  waves  run  rather  Holborn-hilly, 
And  tempests  make  a  soda-water  sea, 
Ahnost  as  rough  as  our  rough  Piccadilly, 
And  think  of  me ! 

Go  where  the  mild  Madeira  ripens  her  juice — 
A  wine  more  praised  than  it  deserves  to  be  ! 
Go  pass  the  Cape,  just  capable  of  ver-juice, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  Tiger  in  the  darkness  prowleth, 
Making  a  midnight  meal  of  he  and  she  ; 
Go  where  the  Lion  in  his  hunger  howleth. 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  serpent  dangerously  coileth, 
Or  lies  along  at  full  length  like  a  tree, 
Go  where  the  Suttee  in  her  own  soot  broileth, 
And  think  of  me ! 

Go  where  with  human  notes  the  Parrot  dealeth 
In  mono-/Jo//y-logue  with  tongue  as  free, 
And  like  a  woman,  all  she  can  revealeth. 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  to  the  land  of  muslin  and  nankeening, 
And  parasols  of  straw  where  hats  should  be, 
Go  to  the  land  of  slaves  and  palankeening. 
And  think  of  me  ! 
10 


218  SONNET. 

Go  to  the  land  of  Jungles  and  of  vast  hills, 
And  tall  bamboos — may  none  bamboozle  thee  ! 
Go  gaze  upon  their  Elephants  and  Castles, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  a  cook  must  always  be  a  currier, 
And  parch  the  pepper'd  palate  like  a  pea, 
Go  where  the  fierce  musquito  is  a  worrier. 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  maiden  on  a  marriage  plan  goes, 
Consigned  for  wedlock  to  Calcutta's  quay. 
Where  woman  goes  for  mart,  the  same  as  mangoes, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Go  where  the  sun  is  very  hot  and  fervent, 
Go  to  the  land  of  pagod  an<i  rupee, 
Where  every  black  will  be  your  slave  and  servant, 
And  think  of  me  ! 


SONNET. 
Along  the  Woodford  road  there  comes  a  noise 
Of  wheels,  and  Mr.  Rounding's  neat  postchaise 
Struggles  along,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  bays, 
With  Rev.  Mr.  Crow  and  six  small  Boys ; 
Who  ever  and  anon  declare  their  joys. 
With  trumping  horns  and  juvenile  huzzas. 
At  going  home  to  spend  their  Christmas  days, 
At  changing  Learning's  pains  for  Pleasure's  toys. 
Six  weeks  elapse,  and  down  the  Woodford  way, 
A  heavy  coach  drags  six  more  heavy  souls, 
But  no  glad  urchins  shout,  no  trumpets  bray ; 
The  carriage  makes  a  halt,  the  gate-bell  tolls. 
And  little  Boys  walk  in  as  dull  and  mum 
As  six  new  scholars  to  the  Deaf  and  Dumb. 


DECEMBER   AND   MAY.  219 


DECEMBER    A^TD    IMAY. 

"Crabbed  Ago  and  Youth  cannot  live  together." 

Shakspeaee. 

Said  Nestor,  to  liis  pretty  wife,  quite  sorrowful  one  day, 
"Why,  dearest,  will  you  shed  in  pearls  those  lovely  eyes 

away? 
You  ought  to  be  more  fortified;" — '"Ah,  brute,  be  quiet, 

do, 
I  know  I  'm  not  so  forty fied,  nor  fiftyfied,  as  you  ! 

"  Oh,  men  are  vile  deceivers  all,  as  I  have  ever  heard. 
You  'd  die  for  me,  you  swore,  and  I — I  took  you  at  your 

word. 
I  was  a  tradesman's  widow  then — a  pretty  change  I've 

made ; 
To  live,  and  die  the  wife  of  one,  a  widower  by  trade  !" 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  these  flighty  airs  declare,  in  sober 

truth, 
You  want  as  much  in  age,  indeed,  as  I  can  want  in  youth ; 
Besides,  you  said  you  liked  old  men,  though  now  at  me  you 

huff." 
"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "  and  so  I  do — but  you  're  not  old 

enough  !" 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  let 's  make  it  up,  and  have  a  quiet 

hive ; 
I  "11  be  the  best  of  men — I  mean — I  '11  be  the  best  alive ! 
Your  grieving  so  will  kill  me,  for  it  cuts  me  to  the  core." — 
"  I  thank  ye,  sir,  for  telling  me — for  now  I  '11  grieve  the 

more  !" 


220  MORAL  REFLECTIONS. 


MORAL  REFLECTIONS  OX  THE  CROSS  OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 

The  man  that  pays  his  pence,  and  goes 

Up  to  thy  lofty  cross,  St.  Paul, 
Looks  over  London's  naked  nose, 

Women  and  men : 

The  world  is  all  beneath  his  ken, 
He  sits  above  the  Ball. 
He  seems  on  Mount  Olympus'  top, 
Among  the  Gods,  by  Jupiter  !  and  lets  drop 
His  eyes  from  the  empyreal  clouds 

On  mortal  crowds. 
Seen  from  these  skies, 
How  small  those  emmets  in  our  eyes  ! 

Some  carry  little  sticks — and  one 
His  eggs — to  warm  them  in  the  sun  : 

Dear  !  what  a  hustle, 

And  bustle  ! 
And  there  's  my  aunt.     I  know  her  by  her  waist, 

So  long  and  thin. 

And  so  pinched  in, 
Just  in  the  pismu'e  taste. 
Oh  !  what  are  men  ? — Beings  so  small, 

That,  should  I  fall 
Upon  their  little  heads,  I  must 
Crush  them  by  hundreds  into  dust ! 
And  what  is  life  ?  and  all  its  ages — 

There 's  seven  stages ! 
Turnham  Green  !   Chelsea  !  Putney  !  Fulham ! 

Brentford  !  and  Kew  ! 

And  Tooting,  too ! 
And  oh  !  what  very  little  nags  to  pull  'em. 


A   VALENTINE.  221 

Yet  each  would  seem  a  horse  indeed, 
If  here  at  Paul's  tip-top  we  'd  got  'em ; 

Although,  like  Cinderella's  breed, 
They  "re  mice  at  bottom. 

Then  let  me  not  despise  a  horse, 
Though  he  looks  small  from  Paul's  high-cross ! 
Since  he  would  be — as  near  the  sky — 

Fourteen  hands  high. 
What  is  this  world  Avith  London  in  its  lap  ? 

Mogg's  Map. 
The  Thames,  that  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  broad  channel  ? 

A  tidy  kennel. 
The  bridges  stretching  from  its  banks  ? 

Stone  planks. 
Oh  me  !  hence  could  I  read  an  admonition 

To  mad  Ambition  ! 
But  that  he  would  not  listen  to  my  call, 
Though  I  should  stand  upon  the  cross,  and  ball! 


A  VALENTINE. 

Oh  !  cruel  heart !  ere  these  posthumous  papers 
Have  met  thine  eyes,  I  shall  be  out  of  breath ; 

Those  cruel  eyes,  like  tAvo  funereal  tapers. 
Have  only  lighted  me  the  Avay  to  death. 

Perchance,  thou  wilt  extinguish  them  in  vapors, 
When  I  am  gone,  and  green  grass  covereth 

Thy  lover,  lost ;  but  it  will  be  in  vain — 

It  will  not  bring  the  vital  spark  again. 

Ah  !  when  those  eyes,  like  tapers,  burned  so  blue, 
It  seemed  an  omen  that  we  must  expect 

The  sprites  of  lovers  :  and  it  boded  true, 
For  I  am  half  a  sprite — a  ghost  elect ; 


222  A   VALENTINE. 

Wherefore  I  write  to  thee  this  last  adieu, 
With  my  last  pen — before  that  I  effect 
My  exit  from  the  stage  ;  just  stopped  before 
The  tombstone  steps  that  lead  us  to  death's  door. 

Full  soon  these  living  eyes,  now  liquid  bright, 
Will  tui-n  dead  dull,  and  wear  no  radiance,  save 

They  shed  a  dreary  and  inhuman  light, 

Illumed  within  by  glow-worms  of  the  grave ; 

These  ruddy  cheeks,  so  pleasant  to  the  sight, 
These  lusty  legs,  and  all  the  limbs  I  have, 

Will  keep  Death's  carnival,  and,  foul  or  fresh, 

Must  bid  farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  flesh  ! 

Yea,  and  this  very  heart,  that  dies  for  thee. 
As  broken  victuals  to  the  worms  will  go  ;  . 

And  all  the  world  will  dine  again  but  me — 
For  I  shall  have  no  stomach  ; — and  I  know, 

When  I  am  ghostly,  thou  wilt  sprightly  be 
As  now  thou  art :  but  will  not  tears  of  woe 

Water  thy  spirits  with  remorse  adjunct, 

When  thou  dost  pause,  and  thmk  of  the  defunct  ? 

And  when  thy  soul  is  buried  in  a  sleep, 
In  midnight  solitude,  and  little  dreaming 

Of  such  a  spectre — what,  if  I  should  creep, 
Within  thy  presence  in  such  dismal  seeming  ? 

Thine  eyes  will  stare  themselves  awake,  and  weep, 
And  thou  wilt  cross  thyself  with  treble  screammg 

And  pray  with  mingled  penitence  and  dread 

That  I  were  less  alive — or  not  so  dead. 

Then  will  thy  heart  confess  thee,  and  reprove 
This  wilful  homicide  which  thou  hast  done : 


SONNET    ON    STEAM.  223 


And  tlic  sad  epitaph  of  so  much  love 
Will  eat  into  my  heart,  as  if  in  stone : 

And  all  the  lovers  that  around  thee  move, 
Will  read  my  fate  and  tremble  for  their  ovrn: 

And  strike  upon  their  heartless  breasts,  and  sigh, 

"  Man,  born  of  woman,  must  of  woman  die  !  ' 

ISIine  eyes  grow  dropsical— I  can  no  more— 
And  what  is  written  thou  may"st  scorn  to  read, 

Shutting  thy  tearless  eyes.— 'Tis  done— -tis  o'er— 
My  hand  is  destmed  for  another  deed. 

But  one  last  word  wrung  from  its  aching  core, 
And  my  lone  heart  m  silentness  will  bleed ; 

Alas  !  it  ought  to  take  a  life  to  tell 

That  one  last  word-that  fare-fare-fare  thee  well ! 


SO^^NET  ON  STEAM. 

BT   AN   rXDER-OSTLEE, 

I  WISH  I  livd  a  Thowsen  year  Ago 

Wurking  for  Sober  six  and  Seven  milers 
And  dubble  Stages  runnen  safe  and  slo 

The  Orsis  cum  ui  Them  days  to  the  Bilers 
But  Now  by  meens  of  Powers  of  Steem  forces 

A-turning  Coches  into  Smoakey  Kettels 
The  Bilers  seam  a  Gumming  to  the  Orses 

And  Helps  and  naggs  Will  sune  be  out  of  Vittels 
Poor  Bruits  I  wunder  How  we  bee  to  Liv 

When  sutch  a  change  of  Orses  is  our  Paits 
No  nothink  need  Be  sifted  in  a  Siv 

May  them  Blowd  ingins  all  Blow  up  their  Grates 
And  Theaves  of  Osiers  crib  the  Coles  and  Giv 
Their  blackgard  Haunimuls  a  Feed  of  Slaits  ! 


224  A   RECIPE — FOR    CIVILIZATION. 


A  EECIPE— FOR   CIVILIZATION. 

The  following  Poem— is  from  the  pen  of  DOCTOR  KITCHE^TER !— the  most  het«- 
rogeneous  of  authors,  but  at  the  same  time — in  the  Sporting  Latin  of  Mr.  Egan — a  real 
Romo-genius,  or  a  Genius  of  a  Man  I  In  the  Poem,  his  CULINARY  ENTHUSIASM, 
as  usual — boils  over  !  and  makes  it  seem  written,  as  he  describes  liimself  (see  The 
Cook's  Oracle; — with  the  Spit  in  one  hand! — and  the  Frying  Pan  in  the  other — while 
in  the  style  of  the  rhymes  it  is  Hudibrastic — as  if  in  the  ingredients  of  VersLficalion 
he  had  been  assisted  by  his  BUTLEPv ! 

As  a  Head  Cook,  Optician — Physician,  Music  Master — ^Domestic  Economist  and 
Death-bed  Attorney! — I  have  celebrated  The  Author  elsewhere  wilh  approbation; — 
and  cannot  now  place  him  upon  the  Table  as  a  Poet — without  st.U  being  bis  LAUDEE. 
a  phrase  which  those  persons  whose  course  of  classical  reading  recalls  the  INFAMOUS 
FORGERY  on  the  Immortal  Bard  of  Avon  /—will  find  easy  to  understand. 

SrRELY,  those  sages  err  who  teach 

That  man  is  known  from  brutes  by  speech, 

TMiich  hardly  severs  man  fi'om  woman, 

But  not  th'  mhuman  from  the  human — 

Or  else  might  parrots  claim  affinity, 

And  dogs  be  doctors  by  latinity — 

Not  t'  insist  (as  might  be  shown) 

That  beasts  have  gibberish  of  their  own, 

"Which  once  was  no  dead  tongue,  tho'  we 

Since  Esop's  days  have  lost  the  key  ; 

Nor  yet  to  hint  dumb  men — and.  still,  not 

Beasts  that  could  gossip  though  they  will  not. 

But  play  at  dummy  like  the  monkeys, 

For  fear  mankind  should  make  them  flunkies. 

Neither  can  man  be  known  by  feature 

Or  form,  because  so  like  a  creature, 

That  some  grave  men  could  never  shape 

"WTiich  is  the  aped  and  which  the  ape, 

Nor  by  his  gait,  nor  by  his  height, 

Nor  yet  because  he 's  black  or  white, 

But  rational — for  so  we  call 

The  only  Cooking  Animal  ! 


A   RECIPE — FOR    CIVILIZATION. 

The  only  one  who  brings  his  bit 
Of  dinner  to  the  ^Dot  or  spit ; 
For  where 's  the  lion  e'er  was  hasty 
To  put  his  ven'son  in  a  pasty? 
Ergo,  by  logic,  we  repute 
That  he  who  cooks  is  not  a  brute — 
But  Equus  brutum  est,  which  means, 
If  a  horse  had  sense  he  'd  boil  his  beans, 
Nay,  no  one  but  a  horse  would  forage 
On  naked  oats  instead  of  porridge. 
Which  proves,  if  brutes  and  Scotchmen  vary, 
The  difference  is  culinary. 
Further,  as  man  is  known  by  feeding 
From  brutes— so  men  from  men,  in  breeding 
Are  still  distinguished  as  they  eat, 
And  raw  in  manners,  raw  in  meat — 
Look  at  the  polished  nations,  hight 
The  civilized — the  most  polite 
Is  that  which  bears  the  praise  of  nations 
For  dressing  eggs  two  hundi-ed  fashions, 
"Whereas,  at  savage  feeders  look — 
The  less  refined  the  less  they  cook ; 
From  Tartar  grooms  that  merely  straddle 
Across  a  steak  and  warm  their  saddle, 
Down  to  the  Abyssinian  squaw 
That  bolts  her  chops  and  collops  raw. 
And,  like  a  wild  beast,  cares  as  little 
To  dress  her  person  as  her  victual — 
For  gowns,  and  gloves,  and  caps,  and  tippets. 
Are  beauty's  sauces,  spice,  and  sippets, 
And  not  by  shamble  bodies  put  on, 
But  those  who  roast  and  Iwil  their  mutton ; 
So  Eve  and  Adam  wore  no  dresses 
10* 


226 


J\ 


226  A   RECIPE — FOR    CIVILIZATION. 

Because  they  lived  on  water  cresses, 

And  till  they  learned  to  cook  their  crudities, 

Went  blind  as  beetles  to  their  nudities. 

For  niceness  comes  from  th'  inner  side, 

(As  an  ox  is  drest  before  his  hide.) 

And  when  the  entrail  loathes  vulgarity 

The  outward  man  will  soon  cull  rarity, 

For  'tis  th'  effect  of  what  we  eat 

To  make  a  man  look  like  his  meat, 

As  insects  show  their  food's  complexions ; 

Thus  fopling  clothes  are  like  confections. 

But  who,  to  feed  a  jaunty  coxcomb, 

"Would  have  an  Abyssinian  ox  come  ? 

Or  serve  a  dish  of  fricassees. 

To  clodpoles  in  a  coat  of  frize  ? 

"WTiereas  a  black  would  call  for  buffalo 

Alive — and,  no  doubt,  eat  the  offal  too. 

Now   (this  premised),  it  follows  then 

That  certain  culinary  men 

Should  first  go  forth  with  pans  and  spits 

To  bring  the  heathens  to  their  wits, 

(For  all  wise  Scotchmen  of  our  century 

Know  that  first  steps  are  alimentary ; 

And,  as  we  have  proved,  flesh  pots  and  saucepans 

Must  pave  the  way  for  Wilberforce  plans ;) 

But  Bunyan  erred  to  think  the  near  gate 

To  take  man's  soul,  was  battering  Ear  gate. 

When  reason  should  have  worked  her  course 

As  men  of  war  do — when  their  force 

Can't  take  a  town  by  open  courage, 

They  steal  an  entry  with  its  forage. 

What  reverend  bishop,  for  example, 

Could  preach  horned  Apis  from  his  temple  ? 


■     A   RECIPE — FOR   CIVILIZATION.  227 

"Whereas  a  cook  vrould  soon  unseat  him, 

And  make  his  own  churchvrardens  eat  him. 

Not  Irving  could  convert  those  vermin 

Th'  Anthropophages,  by  a  sermon ; 

TMiereas  your  Osborne,*  in  a  trice. 

Would  '•  take  a  shin  of  beef  and  spice," — 

And  raise  them  such  a  savory  smother, 

No  negro  ■would  devour  his  brother, 

But  turn  his  stomach  round  as  loth 

As  Persians,  to  the  old  black  broth — 

For  knowledge  oftenest  makes  an  entry, 

As  well  as  true  love,  thro'  the  pantry, 

TMiere  beaux  that  came  at  first  for  feeding 

Grow  gallant  men  and  get  good  breeding ; — - 

Exem])li  gratia — in  the  West, 

Ship-traders  say  there  swims  a  nest 

Lined  with  black  natives,  like  a  rookery,  ; 

But  coarse  as  carrion  crows  at  cookery. — 

This  race,  though  now  called  0.  Y.  E.  men, 

(To  show  they  are  move  than  A.  B.  C.  men,) 

Was  once  so  ignorant  of  our  knacks 

They  laid  their  mats  upon  their  backs. 

And  grew  their  quartern  loaves  for  luncheon 

On  trees  that  baked  them  in  the  sunshine. 

As  for  their  bodies,  they  were  coated, 

(For  painted  things  are  so  denoted;) 

But,  the  naked  truth  is  stark  primevals, 

That  said  their  prayers  to  timber  devils. 

Allowed  polygamy — dwelt  in  wig-wams — 

And,  when  they  meant  a  feast,  ate  big  yams. — 

And  why  ? — because  their  savage  nook 

*  Cook  to  the  late  Sir  John  Banks. 


228  A   RECIPE — FOR    CIVILIZATION.       • 

Had  ne'er  been  visited  by  Cook — 
And  so  they  fared  till  our  great  chief, 
Brought  them,  not  ^Methodists,  but  beef 
In  tubs— and  taught  them  how  to  live, 
Knowing  it  was  too  soon  to  give, 
Just  then,  a  homily  on  their  sins, 
(For  cooking  ends  ere  grace  begins.) 
Or  hand  his  tracts  to  the  untractable 
Till  they  could  keep  a  more  exact  table — 
For  nature  has  her  proper  courses, 
And  wild  men  must  be  backed  like  horses, 
Which,  jockeys  know,  are  never  fit 
For  riding  till  they  've  had  a  bit 
I '  the  mouth ;  but  then,  with  proper  tackle, 
You  may  trot  them  to  a  tabernacle. 
Ergo  (I  say)  he  first  made  changes 
In  the  heathen  modes,  by  kitchen  ranges, 
And  taught  the  king's  cook,  by  convincing 
Process,  that  chewing  was  not  mincing. 
And  in  her  black  fist  thrust  a  bundle 
Of  tracts  abridged  from  Glasse  and  Rundell, 
V>Tiere,  ere  she  had  read  beyond  Welsh  rabbits, 
She  saw  the  spareness  of  her  habits. 
And  round  her  loins  put  on  a  striped 
Towel,  where  fingers  might  be  wiped, 
And  then  her  breast  clothed  like  her  ribs, 
(For  aprons  lead  of  course  to  bibs,) 
And,  by  the  tune  she  had  got  a  meat- 
Screen,  veiled  her  back,  too,  from  the  heat — 
As  for  her  gravies  and  her  sauces, 
(Tho'  they  reformed  the  royal  fauces.) 
Her  forcemeats  and  ragouts — I  praise  not. 
Because  the  legend  further  says  not, 


LINES. 


Except,  she  kept  each  Christian  high-day, 
And  once  upon  a  fat  gootl  Fry-day 
Ran  short  of  logs,  and  told  the  Pagan, 
That  turned  the  spit,  to  chop  up  Dagon ! — 


229 


LINES 


TO   A   FRIEND   AT   COBHAif. 


'Tis  pleasant,  when  we  've  absent  friends. 
Sometimes  to  hob  and  nob  'em 

With  Memory's  glass — at  such  a  pass 
Remember  me  at  Cobham ! 

Have  pigs  you  will,  and  sometimes  kill, 

But  if  you  sigh  and  sob  'em. 
And  cannot  eat  your  home-grown  meat, 

Remember  me  at  Cobham  ! 

Of  hen  and  cock,  you  '11  have  a  stock. 
And  death  will  oft  unthrob  'em — 

A  country  chick  is  good  to  pick — 
Remember  me  at  Cobham  ! 

Some  orchard  trees  of  course  you  '11  lease. 
And  boys  will  sometimes  rob  'em, 

A  friend  (you  know)  before  a  foe — 
Remember  me  at  Cobham ! 

You  '11  sometimes  have  wax-lighted  rooms, 
And  friends  of  course  to  mob  'em. 

Should  you  be  short  of  such  a  sort. 
Remember  me  at  Cobham  ! 


230  MISS  Oliver's  first  voyage. 


MISS   OLH^ER^S  FIRST  VOYAGE. 

A   MEDLEY. 

"All  possible  marine  difficulties  and  tlisasters  were  huddled,  like  an  auction 
medley,  in  one  lot,  Into  her  apprehension." 

Cables  entangliiiD;  her, 
Ship-spars  for  mangling  her, 
Ropes,  sure  of  strangling  her ; 
Blocks  over-dancfling  her : 
Tiller  to  batter  her, 
Topmast  to  shatter  her, 
Tobacco  to  spatter  her ; 
Boreas  blustering, 
Boatswain  quite  flustering, 
Thunder-clouds  musterino; 
To  blast  her  with  sulphur — 
If  the  deep  don't  engulf  her  : 
Sometimes  fear's  scrutiny 
Pries  out  a  mutiny, 
Snifis  conflagration, 
Or  hints  at  starvation  : —  ^ 

All  the  sea  dangers, 
Buccaneers,  rangers. 
Pirates,  and  Saliee-men, 
Algerine  galleymen, 
Tornadoes  and  typhous, 
And  horrible  syphons, 
And  submarine  travels 
Thro"  roaring  sea-navels; 
Every  thing  wrong  enough, 
Long-boat  not  long  enouorh. 
Vessel  not  strong  enough ; 


MISS    OLIVER  S   FIRST   VOYAGE. 


231 


Pitch  marring  frippery, 

The  deck  very  slippery, 

And  the  cabin — built  sloping, 

The  Captain  a-toping, 

And  the  Mate  a  blasphemer 

That  names  his  Redeemer — 

"With  inward  uneasiness ; 

The  cook,  known  by  his  greasiness, 

The  victuals  beslubbered, 

Her  bed — in  a  cupboard ; 

Things  of  strange  christening, 

Snatched  in  her  listening. 

Blue  lights  and  red  lights. 

And  mention  of  dead  lights. 

And  shrouds  made  a  theme  of, 

Things  horrid  to  di'eam  of — 

And  buoys  in  the  water 

To  fear  all  exhort  her  ; 

Her  friend  no  Leander ; 

Herself  no  sea  gander, 

And  ne"er  a  cork  jacket 

On  board  of  the  packet ; 

The  breeze  still  a-stiffening, 

The  trumpet  quite  deafening; 

Thoughts  of  repentance, 

And  doomsday  and  sentence  ! 

Every  thing  sinister. 

Not  a  church  minister — 

Pilot  a  blunderer. 

Coral  reefs  under  her, 

Ready  to  sunder  her ; 

Trunks  tipsy-topsy, 

The  ship  in  a  dropsy; 


232  SONNET. 

Waves  oversurging  her. 
Sirens  a  dirgeing  her, 
Sharks  all  expecting  her, 
Sword-fish  dissecting  her, 
Crabs  with  their  hand- vices 
Punishmg  land  vices; 
Sea-dogs  and  unicorns. 
Things  with  no  puny  horns, 
Mermen  carnivorous — 
"  Good  Lord  deliver  us  I" 


SONNET. 

TO  LORD  WUAR\CLIFFE,   ON   HIS   GAME-BILI,, 

I  'm  fond  of  partridges,  I  'm  fond  of  snipes, 

I'm  fond  of  black  cocks,  for  they're  very  good  cocks- 

I'm  fond  of  wild  ducks,  and  I'm  fond  of  woodcocks, 

And  grouse  that  set  up  such  strange  moorish  pipes. 

I'm  fond  of  pheasants  with  their  splendid  stripes — 

I'm  fond  of  hares,  whether  from  Whig  or  Tory — 

I'm  fond  of  capercailzies  in  their  glory — 

Teal,  widgeons,  plovers,  birds  in  all  their  types  : 

All  these  are  in  your  care,  LaAv-giving  Peer, 

And  when  you  next  address  your  Lordly  Babel, 

Some  clause  put  in  your  Bill,  precise  and  clear, 

With  due  and  fit  provision  to  enable 

A  man  that  holds  all  kinds  of  game  so  dear 

To  keep,  like  Crockford,  a  good  Gaming  Table. 


A  TRUE   STORY. 


233 


A  TRUE  STORY. 

Of  all  our  pains,  since  man  was  curst, 
I  mean  of  body,  not  the  mental, 
To  name  the  worst,  among  the  worst, 
The  dental  sure  is  transcendental ; 
Some  bit  of  masticating  bone, 
That  ought  to  help  to  clear  a  shelf. 
But  let  its  proper  work  alone. 
And  only  seems  to  gnaw  itself; 
In  fact,  of  any  grave  attack 
On  victuals  there  is  little  danger, 
"Tis  so  like  coming  to  the  rack^ 
As  well  as  gomg  to  the  manger. 

Old  Hunks — it  seemed  a  fit  retort 

Of  justice  on  his  grinding  ways — 

Possessed  a  grinder  of  the  sort, 

That  troubled  all  his  latter  days. 

The  best  of  friends  fall  out,  and  so 

His  teeth  had  done  some  years  ago. 

Save  some  old  stumps,  with  ragged  root. 

And  they  took  turn  about  to  shoot ; 

If  he  drank  any  chilly  liquor 

They  made  it  quite  a  point  to  throb ; 

But  if  he  warmed  it  on  the  hob, 

Why  then  they  only  twitched  the  quicker. 

One  tooth — I  wonder  such  a  tooth 
Had  never  killed  him  in  his  youth — 
One  tooth  he  had  with  many  fangs. 
That  shot  at  once  as  many  pangs, 


23-4  A   TRUE    STORY. 

It  had  an  universal  sting ; 

One  touch  of  that  extatic  stump 

Could  jerk  his  limbs,  and  make  him  jump, 

Just  like  a  puppet  on  a  string ; 

And  what  was  worse  than  all,  it  had 

A  way  of  making  others  bad. 

There  is,  as  many  know,  a  knack, 

With  certam  farming  undertakers. 

And  this  same  tooth  pursued  their  track, 

By  adding  ackers  still  to  ackers ! 

One  way  there  is,  that  has  been  judged 
A  certain  cure,  but  Hunks  was  loth 
To  pay  the  fee,  and  quite  begrudged 
To  lose  his  tooth  and  money  both  ; 
In  fact,  a  dentist  and  the  wheel 
Of  Fortune  are  a  kindred  cast. 
For  after  all  is  drawn,  you  feel 
It 's  paying  for  a  blank  at  last ; 
So  Hunks  went  on  from  week  to  week, 
And  kept  his  torment  in  his  cheek ; 
Oh  !  how  it  sometimes  set  him  rocking, 
With  that  perpetual  gnaw — gnaw — gnaw, 
His  moans  and  groans  were  truly  shocking 
And  loud — altho'  he  held  his  jaw. 
Many  a  tug  he  gave  his  gum, 
And  tooth,  but  still  it  would  not  come, 
Tho'  tied  by  string  to  some  firm  thing, 
He  could  not  draw  it,  do  his  best, 
^      By  drawl's,  altho'  he  tried  a  chest. 

At  last,  but  after  much  debating. 

He  joined  a  score  of  mouths  in  waiting. 


A    TRUE   STORY.  235 

Like  his,  to  have  their  troubles  out. 

And  sight  it  was  to  look  about 

At  twenty  faces  making  faces, 

"With  many  a  rampant  trick  and  antic, 

For  all  were  very  horrid  cases, 

And  made  their  owners  nearly  frantic. 

A  little  wicket  now  and  then 

Took  one  of  these  unhappy  men, 

And  out  again  the  victim  rushed, 

While  eyes  and  mouth  together  gushed ; 

At  last  arrived  our  hero's  turn, 

Who  plunged  his  hands  in  both  his  pockets, 

And  down  he  sat,  prepared  to  learn 

How  teeth  are  charmed  to  quit  their  sockets. 

Those  who  have  felt  such  operations, 
Alone  can  guess  the  sort  of  ache, 
When  his  old  tooth  began  to  break 
The  thread  of  old  associations  ; 
It  touched  a  string  m  every  part, 
It  had  so  many  tender  ties ; 
One  chord  seemed  wrenching  at  his  heart, 
And  two  were  tugging  at  his  eyes  ; 
"  Bone  of  his  bone,"  he  felt  of  course. 
As  husbands  do  in  such  divorce ; 
At  last  the  fangs  gave  way  a  little, 
Hunks  gave  his  head  a  backward  jerk. 
And  lo  !  the  cause  of  all  this  work, 
Went — where  it  used  to  send  his  victual ! 

The  monstrous  pain  of  this  proceeding 

Had  not  so  numb'd  his  miser  wit, 

But  in  this  slip  he  saw  a  hit 

To  save,  at  least,  his  purse  from  bleeding ; 


236  A   TRUE    STORY. 

So  when  the  dentist  sought  his  fees, 

Quoth  Hunks,  "  Lefs  finish,  if  you  please." 

"  How  finish?  why  it  "s  out !"'— "  Oh !  no— 

I  'm  none  of  your  beforehand  tippers, 

'Tis  you  are  out,  to  argue  so; 

My  tooth  is  in  my  head  no  doubt, 

But  as  you  say  you  pulled  it  out. 

Of  course  it's  there — between  your  nippers." 

."  Zounds !  sir,  d'  ye  think  I  'd  sell  the  truth 

To  get  a  fee?  no,  wretch,  I  scorn  it." 

But  Hunks  still  asked  to  see  the  tooth, 

And  swore  by  gum  !  he  had  not  drawn  it. 

His  end  obtained,  he  took  his  leave, 

A  secret  chuckle  in  his  sleeve ; 

The  joke  was  worthy  to  produce  one, 

To  think,  by  favor  of  his  wit, 

How  well  a  dentist  had  been  bit 

By  one  old  stump,  and  that  a  loose  one  ! 

The  thing  was  worth  a  laugh,  but  mirth 
Is  still  the  frailest  thing  on  earth  : 
Alas  !  how  often  when  a  joke 
Seems  in  our  sleeve,  and  safe  enough, 
There  comes  some  unexpected  stroke, 
And  hangs  a  weeper  on  the  cuiF! 
Hunks  had  not  vrliistled  half  a  mile, 
When,  planted  right  against  a  stile. 
There  stood  his  foeman,  Mike  Mahoney. 
A  vagrant  reaper,  Irish-born, 
That  helped  to  reap  our  miser's  corn. 
But  had  not  helped  to  reap  his  money, 
A  fact  that  Hunks  remembered  quickly ; 
His  whistle  all  at  once  was  quelled, 


A   TRUE   STORY. 


23T 


And  -when  lie  saw  how  Michael  held 
His  sickle,  he  felt  rather  sickly. 

Nine  souls  in  ten,  with  half  his  fright, 
Would  soon  have  paid  the  bill  at  sight, 
But  misers  (let  observers  watch  it) 
"Will  never  part  with  their  delight 
Till  well  demanded  by  a  hatchet — 
They  live  hard — and  they  die  to  match  it. 
Thus  Hunks  prepared  for  Mike's  attacking, 
Resolved  not  yet  to  pay  the  debt, 
But  let  him  take  it  out  in  hacking  5 
However,  ISlike  l>egan  to  stickle 
In  word  before  he  used  the  sickle ; 
But  mercy  was  not  long  attendant : 
From  words  at  last  he  took  to  blows 
And  aimed  a  cut  at  Hunks's  nose  ; 
That  made  it  what  some  folks  are  not — 
A  member  very  independent. 

Heaven  knows  how  far  this  cruel  trick 

Might  still  have  led,  but  for  a  tramper 

That  came  in  danger's  very  nick, 

To  put  Mahoney  to  the  scamper. 

But  still  compassion  met  a  damper  ; 

There  lay  the  severed  nose,  alas ! 

Beside  the  daisies  on  the  grass, 

"Wee,  crimson-tipf  as  well  as  they, 

Accordmg  to  the  poet's  lay  : 

And  there  stood  Hunks,  no  sight  for  laughter ! 

Away  ran  Hodge  to  get  assistance, 

With  nose  in  hand,  which  Hunks  ran  after, 

But  somewhat  at  unusual  distance. 

In  many  a  little  country  place 


238  A  TRUE   STORY. 

It  is  a  very  common  case 

To  have  but  one  residing  doctor, 

Whose  practice  rather  seems  to  be 

No  practice,  but  a  rule  of  three. 

Physician — surgeon — drug-decoctor ; 

Thus  Hunks  was  forced  to  go  once  more 

Where  he  had  ta'en  his  tooth  before. 

His  mere  name  made  the  learned  man  hot — 

"  What !  Hunks  again  within  my  door  ! 

I'll  pull  his  nose ;"  quoth  Hunks,  "  You  cannot." 

The  doctor  looked  and  saw  the  case 

Plain  as  the  nose  not  on  his  face. 

"  0  !  hum — ha — yes — I  understand." 

But  then  arose  a  long  demur, 

Por  not  a  finger  would  he  stir 

Till  he  was  paid  his  fee  in  hand ; 

That  matter  settled,  there  they  were, 

With  Hunks  well  strapped  upon  his  chair. 

The  opening  of  a  surgeon's  job — 

His  tools,  a  chestful  or  a  drawerful — 

Are  always  something  very  awful, 

And  give  the  heart  the  strangest  throb ; 

But  never  patient  in  his  funks 

Looked  half  so  like  a  ghost  as  Hunks, 

Or  surgeon  half  so  like  a  devil 

Prepared  for  some  infernal  revel : 

His  huge  black  eye  kept  rolling,  rolling, 

Just  like  a  bolus  in  a  box, 

His  fury  seemed  above  controling, 

He  bellowed  like  a  hunted  ox  : 

"  Now,  swindling  wretch,  I  '11  show  thee  how 

We  treat  such  cheatino;  knaves  as  thou ; 


A   TRUE   STORY.  239 

Oh  !  sweet  is  this  revenge  to  sup  ; 
I  have  thee  bj  the  nose — it  "s  now 
My  turn — and  I  will  turn  it  up." 

Guess  how  the  miser  liked  the  scurvy 

And  cruel  way  of  venting  passion  ; 

The  snubbing  folks  in  this  new  fashion 

Seemed  quite  to  turn  him  topsy-turvy  ; 

He  uttered  pray'rs,  and  groans,  and  curses, 

For  things  had  often  gone  amiss 

And  wrong  with  him  before,  but  this 

Would  be  the  worst  of  all  reverses  ! 

In  fancy  he  beheld  his  snout 

Turned  upward  like  a  pitcher's  spout ; 

There  was  another  grievance  yet, 

And  fancy  did  not  fail  to  show  it. 

That  he  must  throw  a  summerset, 

Or  stand  upon  his  head  to  blow  it. 

And  was  there  then  no  argument 

To  change  the  doctor's  vile  intent, 

And  move  his  pity  ? — yes,  in  truth, 

And  that  was — paying  for  the  tooth, 

"  Zounds!  pay  for  such  a  stump !  I  'd  rather — " 

But  here  the  menace  went  no  farther. 

For  with  his  other  ways  of  pinching. 

Hunks  had  a  miser's  love  of  snuff, 

A  recollection  strong  enough 

To  cause  a  very  serious  flinching ; 

In  short,  he  paid  and  had  the  feature 

Replaced  as  it  was  meant  by  nature ; 

For  tho'  by  this  't  was  cold  to  handle, 

(No  corpse's  could  have  felt  more  horrid,) 

And  white  just  like  an  end  of  candle- 


240  EPIGKAMS. 

The  doctor  deemed  and  proved  it  too, 
That  noses  from  the  nose  ■R'ill  do 
As  well  as  noses  from  the  forehead ; 
So,  fixed  by  dmt  of  rag  and  Imt, 
The  part  was  bandaged  up  and  muffled. 
The  chair  unfastened.  Hunks  arose, 
And  shuffled  out,  for  once  unshuffled  : 
And  as  he  went  these  words  he  snuffled — 
"  Well,  this  is  -paying  through  the  nose.' " 


EPIGRAMS 

COMPOSED   ON  HEADING  A   DIARY   LATELY   PUBLISHED. 

That  flesh  is  grass  is  now  as  clear  as  day. 
To  any  but  the  merest  purblind  pup, 

Death  cuts  it  down,  and  then,  to  make  her  hay, 
My  Lady  B comes  and  rakes  it  up. 


THE   LAST   WISH, 

"When  I  resign  this  world  so  briary. 

To  have  across  the  Styx  my  ferrying, 
O,  may  I  die  without  a  diary  ! 

And  be  interred  without  a  BuRY-ing  I 


The  poor  dear  dead  have  been  laid  out  in  vain, 
Turned  into  cash,  they  are  laid  out  again ! 


THE    MONKEY-MARTYR.  241 


THE  MOXKEY-MAETYR. 


'•  God  help  thee,  said  L  but  I  'II  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  ■will :  so  I  tnmed  aboat 
the  cage  to  get  to  the  door.'" — Steexk. 

"Tis  strange,  "^liat  awkwai\l  figures  and  odd  capers 
Folks  cut.  •o'ho  seek  their  doctrine  from  the  papers ; 
But  there  are  many  shaliO"W  politicians 
Who  take  then-  bias  fi'om  bewildered  journals — 

Turn  state-physicians, 
And  make  themselves  fools" -cap  of  the  diurnals. 

One  of  this  kind,  not  human,  but  a  monkey, 
Had  read  himself  at  last  to  this  sour  creed — 
That  he  was  nothing  but  Oppression's  flunkey, 
And  man  a  tyrant  over  all  his  breed. 

He  could  not  read 
Of  niggers  -svhipt.  or  orer-trampled  weavers. 
But  he  applied  their  wrongs  to  his  own  seed, 
And  nourished  thoushts  that  threw  him  into  fevers. 
His  veiy  dreams  were  full  of  martial  beavei^. 
And  drilling  Pugs,  for  liberty  pugnacious, 

To  sever  chains  vexatious : 
In  fact,  he  thought  that  all  his  injured  line 
Should  take  up  pikes  in  hand,  and  never  drop  'em 
Till  they  had  cleared  a  road  to  Freedom's  shrine — 
Unless  perchance  the  turnpike  men  should  stop  "em. 

Full  of  this  rancor, 
Pacing  one  day  beside  St.  Clement  Danes. 

It  came  into  his  brains 
To  give  a  look  in  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor ; 
11 


242  THE    MONKEY-MARTYR. 

Where  certain  solemn  sages  of  the  nation 

Vv'ere  at  that  moment  in  deliberation 

How  to  relieve  the  wide  world  of  its  chains, 

Pluck  despots  down, 

And  thereby  crown 
Whitee-  as  well  as  blackee-man-cipation. 
Pug  heard  the  speeches  with  great  approbation, 
And  gazed  Avith  pride  upon  the  Liberators ; 

To  see  mere  coal-heavers 

Such  perfect  Bolivars — 
Waiters  of  inns  subhmcd  to  innovators, 
And  slaters  dignified  as  legislators- 
Small  publicans  demanding  (such  their  high  sense 
Of  liberty)  an  universal  license — 
And  pattern-makers  easing  Freedom's  clogs — 

The  whole  thing  seemed 

So  fine,  he  deemed 
The  smallest  demagogues  as  great  as  Gogs ! 

Pug,  with  some  curious  notions  in  his  noddle. 
Walked  out  at  last,  and  turned  into  the  Strand, 

To  the  left  hand, 
Conning  some  portion  of  the  previous  twaddle, 
And  striding  with  a  step  that  seemed  designed 
To  represent  the  mighty  March  of  Mind, 

Instead  of  that  slow  waddle 
Of  thought,  to  which  our  ancestors  inclined — 
No  wonder,  then,  that  he  should  quickly  find 
He  stood  in  front  of  that  intrusive  pile, 

Where  Cross  keeps  many  a  kind 

Of  bird  confined, 
And  free-born  animal,  in  durance  vile — 
A  thought  that  stirred  up  all  the  monkey-bile  I 


THE    MONKEY-MARTYR. 

The  Trindow  stood  ajar — 

It  was  not  far, 
Nor.  like  Parnassus,  very  hard  to  climb — 
The  hour  was  verging  on  the  supper-time, 
And  many  a  growl  was  sent  through  many  a  bar. 
ISIeanwhile  Pug  scrambled  upward  like  a  tar, 

And  soon  crept  in, 

Unnoticed  in  the  din 
Of  tuneless  throats,  that  made  the  attics  ring  ^ 
With  all  the- harshest  notes  that  they  could  bring; 

For  like  the  Jews, 

Wild  beasts  refuse 
In  midst  of  their  capti\aty— to  sing. 

Lord !  how  it  made  him  chafe, 
Full  of  his  new  emancipating  zeal. 
To  look  around  upon  this  brute-bastille, 
And  see  the  king  of  creatures  in — a  safe ! 
The  desert's  denizen  in  one  small  den, 
Swallowing  slavery's  most  bitter  pills — 
A  bear  in  bars  unbearable.     And  then 
The  fretful  porcupine,  with  all  its  quills, 

Imprisoned  in  a  pen  I 
A  tiger  limited  to  four  feet  ten ; 
And,  still  worse  lot, 
A  leopard  to  one  spot, 
An  elephant  enlarged, 
But  not  discharged ; 
(It  was  before  the  elephant  was  shot ;) 
A  doleful  wanderow,  that  wandered  not ; 
An  ounce  much  disproportioned  to  his  pound. 

Pug's  wrath  waxed  hot 
To  o-aze  upon  these  captive  creatures  round ; 


243 


244  THE   MONKEY-MARTYR. 

Whose  claws— all  scratching — gave  him  full  assurance 
They  found  theu'  durance  vile  of  vile  endurance. 

He  Tvent  above — a  solitary  mounter 

Up  gloomy  stairs — and  saw  a  pensive  group 

Of  hapless  fowls — 

Cranes,  vultures,  owls, 
In  fact,  it  was  a  sort  of  Poultry-Compter, 
Where  feathered  prisoners  were  doomed  to  droop : 
Here  sat  an  eagle,  forced  to  make  a  stoop, 
Not  from  the  skies,  but  his  unpendmg  roof; 

And  there  aloof, 
A  pining  ostrich,  moping  in  a  coop : 
With  other  samples  of  the  buxl  creation, 
All  caged  against  their  powers  and  their  wills, 
And  cramped  in  such  a  space,  the  longest  bills 
Were  plainly  bills  of  least  accommodation. 
In  truth,  it  was  a  very  ugly  scene 
To  fall  to  any  liberator's  share,     . 
To  see  those  winged  fowls,  that  once  had  been 
Free  as  the  wind,  no  freer  than  fixed  air. 

His  temper  little  mended, 
Pug  from  this  Bh'd-cage  Walk  at  last  descended 

Unto  the  lion  and  the  elephant, 

His  bosom  in  a  pant 
To  see  all  nature's  Free  List  thus  suspended. 
And  beasts  deprived  of  what  she  had  intended. 

They  could  not  even  prey 

In  their  own  way ; 
A  hardship  always  reckoned  quite  prodigious. 

Thus  he  revolved — 

And  soon  resolved 
To  give  them  freedom,  civil  and  religious. 


THE   MONKEY-MARTYK.  245 

That  night,  there  were  no  country  cousins,  raw 

From  Wales  to  view  the  lion  and  his  kin : 

The  keeper's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  saw ; 

The  saw  was  fixed  upon  a  bullock's  shin : 
ISIeanwhile  with  stealthy  paw, 
Pug  hastened  to  withdraw 

The  bolt  that  kept  the  kmg  of  brutes  withm. 

Now,  monarch  of  the  forest !  thou  shalt  win 

Precious  enfranchisement— thy  bolts  are  undone ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  a  degraded  creature, 

But  loose  to  roam  with  liberty  and  nature ; 

And  free  of  all  the  jungles  about  London — 
All  Hampstead's  healthy  desert  lies  before  thee ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  bound  from  Cross's  ark, 
Full  of  the  native  instinct  that  comes  o'er  thee, 

And  turn  a  ranger 
Of  Hounslow  Forest,  and  the  Regent's  Park- 
Thin  Rhodes" s  cows— the  mail-coach  steeds  endanger— 
And  gobble  parish  watchmen  after  dark : — 
ISIethinks  I  see  thee,  with  the  early  lark. 
Stealing  to  Merlin's  cave— (My  cave)— Alas, 
That  such  bright  visions  should  not  come  to  pass! 
Alas  for  freedom,  and  for  freedom's  hero! 

Alas,  for  liberty  of  life  and  limb ! 
For  Pug  had  only  half  unbolted  Nero, 
When  Nero  bolted  him ! 


246  CRANIOLOGY. 


CRANIOLOGY. 


'TiS  strange  how  like  a  very  dunce, 

Man — with  his  bumps  upon  his  sconce, 

Has  lived  so  long,  and  yet  no  knowledge  he 

Has  had,  till  lately,  of  Phrenology — 

A  science  that  by  simple  dint  of 

Head-combing  he  should  find  a  hint  of, 

"When  scratching  o'er  those  little  pole-hills, 

The  faculties  throw  up  like  mole-hills ; — 

A  science  that,  in  very  spite 

Of  all  his  teeth,  ne'er  came  to  light, 

For  tho'  he  knew  his  skull  had  grindei'S^ 

Still  there  turned  up  no  organ  finders, 

Still  sages  wrote,  and  ages  fled, 

And  no  man's  head  came  in  his  head — 

Not  even  the  pate  of  Erra  Pater, 

Knew  aught  about  its  pia  mater. 

At  last  orreat  Dr.  Gall  bestirs  him — 

I  don't  know  but  it  might  be  Spurzheim — 

Tho'  native  of  a  dull  and  slow  land, 

And  makes  partition  of  our  Poll-land  : 

At  our  Acquisitiveness  guesses, 

And  all  those  necessary  nesses 

Indieative  of  human  habits, 

All  buiTOwing  in  the  head  like  rabbits. 

Thus  Veneration  he  made  known, 

Had  jrot  a  lods-ino:  at  the  Crown  : 

And  Music  (see  Deville's  example) 

A  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple  : 

That  Language  taught  the  tongues  close  by, 

And  took  in  pupils  thro'  the  eye, 


CRANIOLOGY. 


247 


Close  by  his  neighbor  Computation, 
Who  taught  the  eyebrows  numeration. 

The  science  thus— to  speak  in  fit 

Terms— having  struggled  from  its  nit, 

Was  seized  on  by  a  swarm  of  Scotchmen, 

Those  scientifical  hotch-potch  men, 

Who  have  at  least  a  penny  dip 

And  wallop  in  all  doctorship, 

Just  as  in  makmg  broth  they  smatter 

By  bobbing  twenty  things  in  water ; 

These  men,  I  say,  made  quick  appliance 

And  close,  to  phrenologic  science : 

For  of.  all  learned  themes  whatever 

That  schools  and  colleges  deliver. 

There's  none  they  love  so  near  the  bodies,  . 

As  analyzing  then-  own  noddles, 

Thus  in  a  trice  each  northern  blockhead 

Had  got  his  fingers  in  his  shock  head, 

And  of  his  bumps  was  babbling  yet  worse 

Than  poor  Miss  Capulefs  dry  wet-nui-se; 

Till  having  been  sufficient  rangers 

Of  theh'  own  heads,  they  took  to  strangers'. 

And  found  m  Presbyterians'  poUs 

The  things  they  hated  in  thek  souls  ; 

For  Presbyterians  hear  with  passion 

Of  organs  joined  with  veneration. 

Ko  khid  there  was  of  human  pumpkin 

But  at  its  bumps  it  had  a  bumpkin ; 

Down  to  the  very  lowest  gullion, 

And  oiliest  scull  of  oily  scullion. 

No  great  man  died  but  this  they  did  do, 

They  begged  his  cranium  of  his  widow : 


248  CKAXIOLOGY. 

No  murderer  died  hj  law  disaster, 
But  thej  took  off  his  sconce  in  plaster ; 
For  thereon  they  could  show  depending 
'•  The  head  and  front  of  his  offending," 
How  that  his  philanthropic  bump 
Was  mastered  by  a  baser  lump  ; 
Tor  every  bump  (these  wags  insist) 
Has  its  direct  antagonist, 
Each  striving  stoutly  to  prevail, 
Like  horses  knotted  tail  to  tail ; 
And  many  a  stiff  and  sturdy  battle 
Occurs  between  these  adverse  cattle, 
The  secret  cause,  beyond  all  question, 
Of  aches  ascribed  to  indigestion — 
Whereas  'tis  but  two  knobby  rivals 
Tugging  together  like  sheer  devils, 
Till  one  gets  mastery,  good  or  sinister. 
And  comes  in  like  a  new  prime-minister. 

Each  bias  in  some  master  node  is  : — 
AYhat  takes  M'Adam  Avhere  a  road  is, 
To  hammer  little  pebbles  less  ? 
Eas  organ  of  Destructiveness. 
What  makes, great  Joseph  so  encumber 
Debate  ?  a  lumping  lump  of  Number : 
Or  Malthus  rail  at  babies  so? 
The  smallness  of  his  Philopro — 
YVhat  severs  man  and  wife  ?  a  simple 
Defect  of  the  Adhesive  pimple  : 
Or  makes  weak  women  go  astray  ? 
Their  bumps  are  more  in  fault  than  they. 
These  facts  being  found  and  set  in  order 
By  grave  M.D.'s  beyond  the  Border. 


A   PARTHIAN    GLANCE.  249 

To  make  them  for  some  feAY  months  eternal, 
Were  entered  monthly  in  a  journal, 
That  many  a  northern  sage  still  writes  in. 
And  throws  his  little  Northern  Lights  in, 
And  proves  and  proves  about  the  phrenos, 
A  great  deal  more  than  I  or  he  knows. 
How  Music  suiFers,  par  exemple^ 
By  wearing  tight  hats  round  the  temple ; 
"What  ills  great  boxers  have  to  fear 
From  blisters  put  behind  the  ear : 
And  how  a  porter's  Veneration 
Is  hurt  by  porter's  occupation : 
Whether  shillelahs  in  reality 
May  deaden  Individuality : 
Or  tongs  and  poker  bo  creative 
Of  alterations  in  the  Amative : 
If  falls  from  scaifolds  make  us  less 
Inclined  to  all  Constructiveness  : 
With"  more  such  matters,  all  applying 
To  heads — and  therefore  AeatZifying. 


A  PARTHIAN  GLANCE. 

"Sweet  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  time  I  tuiu  my  sail." 

ROGKES. 

Come,  my  Crony,  let 's  think  upon  far-away  days, 

And  lift  up  a  little  Oblivion's  veil ; 
Let 's  consider  the  past  with  a  lingering  gaze. 

Like  a  peacock  whose  eyes  are  inclined  to  his  tail. 
11* 


250  A    PARTHIAN    GLANCE. 

Ay,  come,  let  us  turn  our  attention  behind. 

Like  those  critics  whose  heads  are  so  heavy,  I  fear, 

That  they  can  not  keep  up  with  the  march  of  "the  mind. 
And  so  turn  face  about  for  reviewing  the  rear. 

Looking  over  Time's  crupper  and  over  his  tail, 
Oh,  what  ages  and' pages  there  are  to  revise ! 

And  as  farther  our  back-searchmg  glances  prevail. 
Like  the  emmets,  '•  how  little  we  are  in  our  eyes  !" 

"WTiat  a  sweet  pretty  innocent,  half-a-yard  long. 

On  a  dimity  lap  of  true  nursery  make ! 
I  can  fancy  I  hear  the  old  lullaby  song 

That  was  meant  to  compose  me,  but  kept  me  awake. 

Methinks  I  still  suffer  the  infantine  throes, 

"When  my  flesh  was  a  cushion  for  any  long  pin — 

"Whilst  they  patted  my  body  to  comfort  my  woes. 

Oh  !  how  little  they  dreamt  they  were  driving  them  in  ! 

Infant  sorrows  are  strong — infant  pleasures  as  weak — 
But  no  grief  was  allowed  to  indulge  in  its  note ; 

Did  you  ever  attempt  a  small  "  bubble  and  squeak," 
Thro'  the  Dalby's  Carminative  down  in  your  throat  ? 

Did  you  ever  go  up  to  the  roof  with  a  bounce  ? 

Did  you  ever  come  down  to  the  floor  with  the  same  ? 
Oh  !  I  can't  but  agree  with  both  ends,  and  pronounce 

'•  Head  or  tails,"  with  a  child,  an  unpleasantish  game  ! 

Then  an  urchin — I  see  myself  urchin,  indeed, 

"With  a  smooth  Sunday  face  for  a  mother's  delight ; 

Why  should  weeks  have  an  end  ? — I  am  sure  there  was  need 
Of  a  Sabbath,  to  follow  each  Saturday -night. 


A    PARTHIAN    GLANCE.  251 

Was  your  face  ever  sent  to  the  housemaid  to  scrub  ? 

Have  you  ever  felt  huckaback  softened  Avith  sand  ? 
Had  you  ever  your  nose  to"\velled  up  to  a  snub, 

And  your  eyes  knuckled  out  with  the  back  of  the  hand  ? 

Then  a  school-boy — my  tailor  -was  nothing  in  fault, 
For  an  urchin  -will  grow  to  a  lad  by  degrees — 

But  how  well  I  remember  that  '-pepper  and  salt"' 
That  was  down  to  the  elbows,  and  up  to  the  knees  ! 

AVhat  a  figure  it  cut  when  as  Korval  I  spoke  ! 

"With  a  lanky  right  leg  duly  planted  before ; 
"Whilst  I  told  of  the  chief  that  was  killed  by  my  stroke. 

And  extended  my  arms  as  '•  the  arras  that  he  wore  I" 

Xext  a  Lover — Oh  !  say,  were  you  ever  m  love  ? 

With  a  lady  too  cold — and  your  bosom  too  hot  ? 
Have  you  bowed  to  a  shoe-tie,  and  knelt  to  a  glove  ? 

Like  a  beau  that  desired  to  be  tied  in  a  knot? 

With  the  Bride  all  in  white,  and  your  body  in  blue, 
Did  you  walk  up  the  aisle — the  genteelest  of  men  ? 

^^^len  I  think  of  that  beautiful  vision  anew, 
Oh  !  I  seem  but  the  biffin  of  what  I  was  then  ! 

I  am  withered  and  worn  by  a  premature  care, 

And  my  wrinkles  confess  the  decline  of  my  days ; 

Old  Time's  busy  hand  has  made  free  with  my  hair, 
And  I  'm  seeking  to  hide  it — by  writing  for  bays ! 


252  '-dox't  you  smell  fire?" 


"DON'T   YOU    SMELL    FERET 

Run  ! — run  for  St.  Clement's  engine  ! 

For  the  Pawnbroker's  all  in  a  blaze, 
And  the  pledges  are  frying  and  singing — 

Oh  !  how  the  poor  pawners  will  craze  ! 
Now  where  can  the  turncock  be  drinking  ? 

Was  there  ever  so  thirsty  an  elf? — 
But  he  still  may  tope  on,  for  I  "m  thinking 

That  the  plugs  are  as  diy  as  himself. 

The  engines  ! — I  hear  them  come  rumbhng  ; 

There 's  the  Phcenis !  the  Globe !  and  the  Sun! 
What  a  row  there  will  be,  and  a  grumbling, 

When  the  water  don't  start  for  a  run ! 
See !  there  they  come  racing  and  tearing. 

All  the  street  with  loud  voices  is  filled ; 
Oh !  it 's  only  the  firemen  a-swearing 

At  a  man  they  've  run  over  and  killed ! 

How  sweetly  the  sparks  fly  away  now, 

And  twinkle  like  stars  in  the  sky  ; 
It's  a  wonder  the  engines  don't  play  now. 

But  I  never  saw  water  so  shy  ! 
VHij  there  is  n't  enough  for  a  snipe, 

And  the  fire  it  is  fiercer,  alas  ! 
Oh!  instead  of  the  New  Eiver  Pipe, 

They  have  gone — that  they  have — to  the  gas. 

Only  look  at  the  jwor  little  P- 


On  the  roof — is  there  any  thing  sadder  ? 
My  dears,  keep  fast  hold,  if  you  please, 

And  they  won't  be  an  hour  with  the  ladder  ! 


"don't  you  smell  fire?"  253 

But  if  any  one  's  hot  in  their  feet, 

And  in  very  great  haste  to  be  saved, 
Here 's  a  nice  easy  bit  in  the  street, 

That  M'Adam  has  lately  unpaved  ! 

There  is  some  one — I  sec  a  dark  shape 

At  that  -window,  the  hottest  of  all — 
My  good  woman,  why  don't  you  escape  ? 

Never  think  of  your  bonnet  and  shawl : 
If  your  dress  is  n't  perfect,  what  is  it 

For  once  in  a  way  to  your  hurt  ? 
When  your  husband  is  paying  a  visit 

There,  at  Number  Fourteen,  in  his  shirt  I 

Only  see  how  she  throws  out  her  chaneij  ! 

Her  basins,  and  tea-pots,  and  all 
The  most  brittle  of  her  goods — or  any, 

But  they  all  break  in  breaking  their  fall : 
Such  things  are  not  surely  the  best 

From  a  tAvo-story  window  to  throw — 
She  might  save  a  good  iron-bound  chest, 

For  there 's  plenty  of  people  below ! 

0  dear  I  what  a  beautiful  flash  ! 

How  it  shone  thro'  the  windovv'  and  door ; 
We  shall  soon  hear  a  scream  and  a  crash, 

When  the  woman  flills  thro'  with  the  floor  ! 
There  !  there  !   what  a  volley  of  flame, 

And  then  suddenly  all  is  obscured ! — 
Well— I  'm  glad  in  my  heart  that  I  came  ; — 

But  I  hope  the  poor  man  is  insured ! 


254  THE   WIDOW. 


THE  WIDOW. 

One  widow  at  a  grave  will  sob 
A  little  while,  and  weep,  and  sigh  I 
If  two  should  meet  on  such  a  job, 
They  '11  have  a  gossip  bj  and  bj. 
If  three  should  come  together — why, 
Three  widows  are  good  company  ! 
If  four  should  meet  by  any  chance, 
Four  is  a  number  very  nice. 
To  have  a  rubber  in  a  trice — 
But  five  will  up  and  have  a  dance ! 

Poor  Mrs.  C (why  should  I  not 

Declare  her  name  ? — her  name  was  Cross) 

Was  one  of  those  the  "  common  lot" 

Had  left  to  weep  '•  no  common  loss  :" — 

For  she  had  lately  buried  then 

A  man,  the  "  very  best  of  men," 

A  lingering  truth,  discovered  first 

Whenever  men  "  are  at  the  worst." 

To  take  the  measure  of  her  woe, 

It  was  some  dozen  inches  deep — 

I  mean  in  crape,  and  hung  so  low, 

It  liid  the  drops  she  did  7iot  weep ; 

In  fact,  what  human  life  appears. 

It  was  a  perfect  "  veil  of  tears." 

Though  ever  since  she  lost  "her  prop 

And  stay" — alas !  he  wouldn't  stay — 

She  never  had  a  tear  to  mop, 

Except  one  little  angry  drop, 

From  Passion's  eye,  as  Moore  would  say ; 


THE    WIDOW. 

Because,  wlicn  Mister  Cross  took  flight, 

It  looked  so  very  like  a  spite — 

He  died  upon  a  washing-day ! 

Still  Widow  Cross  went  twice  a  week, 

As  if  "  to  wet  a  widow's  cheek," 

And  soothe  his  grave  with  sorrow's  gravy — 

'T  was  nothing  but  a  make-believe, 

She  might  as  well  have  hoped  to  grieve 

Enough  of  brine  to  float  a  navy ; 
And  yet  she  often  seemed  to  raise 

A  cambric  kerchief  to  her  eye — 

A  duster  ought  to  be  the  phrase, 

Its  work  was  all  so  very  dry. 

The  springs  were  locked  that  ought  to  flow — 

In  England  or  in  widow-woman — 

As  those  that  watch  the  weather  know, 

Such  "backward  Springs"  are  not  uncommon. 


255 


But  why  did  Widow  Cross  take  pains, 

To  call  upon  the  "dear  remains" — 

Remains  that  could  not  tell  a  jot. 

Whether  she  ever  wept  or  not. 

Or  how  his  relict  took  her  losses  ? 

Oh  !  my  black  ink  turns  red  for  shame^ 

But  still  the  naughty  world  must  learn. 

There  was  a  little  German  came 

To  shed  a  tear  in  "  Anna's  Urn," 

At  the  next  grave  to  Mr.  Cross's  ! 

For  there  an  angel's  virtues  slept, 

"  Too  soon  did  Heaven  assert  its  claim  !" 

But  still  her  painted  fiicc  he  kept, 

"  Encompassed  in  an  angel's  frame." 


256  THE    WIDOW. 

He  looked  quite  sad  and  quite  deprived, 
His  liead  was  nothing  but  a  bat-band ; 
He  looked  so  lone  and  so  ?//nvived, 
That  soon  the  Widow  Cross  contrived 
To  fall  in  love  with  even  that  band ; 
And  all  at  once  the  brackish  juices 
Came  gushing  out  through  sorrow's  sluices — 
Tear  after  tear  too  fist  to  wipe, 
Tho'  sopped,  and  sopped,  and  sopped  again — 
No  leak  in  sorrow's  private  pipe, 
But  like  a  bursting  on  the  main  ! 
Whoe'er  has  watched  the  window-pane — 
I  mean  to  say  in  showery  weather — 
Has  seen  two  little  drops  of  rain, 
Like  lovers  very  fond  and  fain. 
At  one  another  creeping,  creeping, 
Till  both,  at  last,  embrace  together  : 
So  fared  it  with  that  couple's  weeping, 
The  principle  was  quite  as  active — 
Tear  unto  tear 
Kept  drawing  near, 
Their  very  blacks  became  attractive. 
To  cut  a  shortish  story  shorter, 
Conceive  them  sitting  tete-a-tete — 
Two  cups — hot  muffins  on  a  plate — 
With  "  Anna's  Urn"  to  hold  hot  water  I 
The  brazen  vessel  for  a  while 
Had  lectured  in  an  easy  song, 
Like  Abernethy — on  the  bile — 
The  scalded  herb  was  getting  strong  ; 
All  seemed  as  smooth  as  smooth  could  be, 
To  have  a  cosy  cup  of  tea  ; 
Alas !  how  often  human  sippers 


THE    WIDOW.  257 

With  unexpected  bitters  meet, 

And  buds,  the  sweetest  of  the  sweet, 

Like  sugar,  only  meet  the  nippers ! 

The  Widow  Cross,  I  should  have  told, 
Had  seen  three  husbands  to  the  mould  ; 
She  never  sought  an  Indian  pyre, 
Like  Hindoo  wives  that  lose  their  loves, 
But  with  a  proper  sense  of  fire, 
Put  up,  instead,  with  "  three  removes  :" 
Thus,  when  with  any  tender  words 
Or  tears  she  spoke  about  her  loss. 
The  dear  departed,  Mr.  Cross, 
Came  in  for  nothing  but  his  thirds ; 
For,  as  all  widows  love  too  well, 
She  liked  upon  the  list  to  dwell, 
And  oft  ripped  up  the  old  disasters- 
She  might,  indeed,  have  been  supposed 
A  great  ship-o\mer,  for  she  prosed 
Eternally  of  her  Three  Masters ! 
Thus,  foolish  woman  !   while  she  nursed 
Her  mild  souchong,  she  talked  and  reckoned 
What  had  been  left  her  by  her  first. 
And  by  her  last,  and  by  her  second. 
Alas  !  not  all  her  annual  rents 
Could  then  entice  the  little  German — 
Not  Mr.  Cross's  Three  Per  Cents, 
Or  Consols,  ever  make  him  her  man ; 
He  liked  her  cash,  he  liked  her  houses. 
But  not  that  dismal  bit  of  land 
She  always  settled  on  her  spouses. 
So  taking  up  his  hat  and  band, 


258  A   BUTCHER. 

Said  he,  "  You  '11  think  my  conduct  odd — 
But  here  my  hopes  no  more  may  linger ; 
I  thought  you  had  a  wedding-finger, 
But  oh  ! — it  is  a  curtain-rod  I" 


A   BUTCHEE. 


Whoe'er  has  gone  thro"  London  Street, 
Has  seen  a  butcher  gazing  at  his  meat, 

And  how  he  keeps 

Gloating  upon  a  sheep's 
Or  bullock's  personals,  as  if  his  otth  ; 

How  he  admires  his  halves 

And  quarters — and  his  calves, 
As  if  in  truth  upon  his  own  legs  grown ; — 

His  fat  I  his  suet ! 
His  kidneys  peeping  elegantly  thro'  it ! 

His  thick  flank ! 

And  his  thin ! 
His  shank ! 
His  shin ! 
Skin  of  his  skin,  and  bone  too  of  his  bone ! 

With  what  an  air 
He  stands  aloof  across  the  thoroughfare, 
Gazing — and  will  not  let  a  body  by, 
Tho'  buy !  buy  I  buy  !  be  constantly  his  cry ; 
Meanwhile  with  arms  akimbo,  and  a  pair 
Of  Rhodian  legs,  he  revels  in  a  stare 
At  his  Joint  Stock — for  one  may  call  it  so, 

Howbeit.  without  a  Co. 
The  dotage  of  self-love  was  never  fonder 
Than  he  of  his  brute  bodies  all  a-row; 


THE    DOUBLE    KNOCK.  259 

Narcissus  in  the  -wave  did  never  ponder 

"With  love  so  strong 

On  his  "  portrait  cliarmant," 
As  our  vain  Butcher  on  his  carcass  yonder. 

Look  at  his  sleek  round  skull! 
How  bright  his  cheek,  how  rubicund  his  nose  is  I 

His  visage  seems  to  be 

Ripe  for  beef-tea ; 
Of  brutal  juices  the  whole  man  is  full — 
In  fact,  fulfilling  the  metempsychosis, 
The  butcher  is  already  half  a  Bull. 


THE   DOUBLE   KNOCK. 

Rat-tat  it  went  upon  the  lion's  chin, 

"  That  hat,  I  know  it!"  cried  the  joyful  girl; 

"  Summer's  it  is,  I  know  him  by  his  knock, 

Comers  like  him  are  welcome  as  the  day ! 

Lizzy  !  go  down  and  open  the  street-door, 

Busy  I  am  to  any  one  but  him. 

Know  him  you  must — he  has  been  often  here ; 

Show  him  up  stairs,  and  tell  him  I  'm  alone." 

Quickly  the  maid  went  tripping  down  the  stair ; 
Thickly  the  heart  of  Rose  Matilda  beat ; 
"  Sure  he  has  brought  me  tickets  for  the  play — 
Drury — or  Covent  Garden — darling  man ! — 
Kemble  will  play — or  Kean  who  makes  the  soul 
Tremble :  in  Richard  or  the  frenzied  Moor — 
Farren,  the  stay  and  prop  of  many  a  farce 
Barren  beside  — or  Liston,  Laughter's  Child — 
Kelly  the  natural,  to  witness  whom 


260  THE  devil's  album. 

Jelly  is  nothing  in  the  puljlic's  jam — 
Cooper,  the  sensible — and  Walter  Knowles 
Super,  in  William  Tell — now  rightly  told. 
Better— perchance,  from  Andrews,  brings  a  box, 
Letter  of  boxes  for  the  Italian  stage — 
Brocard  !  Donzelli !  Taglioni !  Paul ! 
No  card— thank  heaven — engages  me  to-night ! 
Feathers,  of  course,  no  turban,  and  no  toque — 
Weather  's  against  it,  but  I  "11  go  in  curls. 
Dearly  I  dote  on  white — my  satin  dress. 
Merely  one  night — it  won't  be  much  the  worse — 
Cupid — the  New  Ballet  I  long  to  see — 
Stupid !  why  don't  she  go  and  ope  the  door  !" 

Glistened  her  eye  as  the  impatient  gh'l 
Listened,  low  bending  o'er  the  topmost  stair. 
Vainly,  alas !  she  listens  and  she  bends. 
Plainly  she  heai-s  this  question  and  reply  : 
"  Axes  your  pardon,  Sir,  but  what  d'  ye  want  ?" 
"  Taxes,"  says  he,  "  and  shall  not  call  again  !" 


THE   DEVIL'S   ALBUM, 

It  will  seem  an  odd  whim 

For  a  Spu'it  so  grim 
As  the  Devil  to  take  a  delight  in ; 

But  by  common  renown 

He  has  come  up  to  town 
With  an  Album  for  people  to  write  in  I 

On  a  handsomer  book 
Mortal  never  did  look, 
Of  a  flame-color  silk  is  the  binding, 


EPIGRAM.  261 

With  a  border  superb, 
"Where,  through  floweret  and  herb, 
The  old  Serpent  goes  brilliantly  winding  I 

By  gilded  grotesques. 

And  embossed  arabesques, 
The  whole  cover,  in  fact,  is  pervaded ; 

But,  alas  !  in  a  taste 

That  betrays  they  were  traced 
At  the  will  of  a  Spirit  degraded ! 

As  for  paper — the  best, 

But  extremely  hot-pressed. 
Courts  the  pen  to  luxui'iate  upon  it, 

And  against  every  blank 

There 's  a  note  on  the  Bank, 
As  a  bribe  for  a  sketch  or  a  sonnet. 

^yho  will  care  to  appear 

In  the  Fiend's  Souvenir, 
Is  a  question  to  morals  most  vital ; 

But  the  very  first  leaf. 

It  "s  the  public  belief, 
Will  be  filled  by  a  Lady  of  Title ! 


EPIGRAM 

OK  A  LATE   CATTLE-SHOW  Ds'   SMITHFIELI). 

Old  Farmer  Bull  is  taken  sick. 
Yet  not  with  any  sudden  trick 

Of  fever,  or  his  old  dyspepsy ; 
But  having  seen  the  foreign  stock, 
It  gave  his  system  such  a  shock 

He 's  had  a  fit  of  cattle-epsy ! 


262  A  REPORT  FROM  BELOW. 


A  REPORT  FROM  BELOW. 

"Blow  high,  blow  low." — Sea  Song. 

As  Mister  B.  and  Mistress  B. 

One  night  were  sitting  down  to  tea, 

With  toast  and  muffins  hot — 

They  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  bounce, 

That  made  the  very  china  flounce, 

They  could  not  for  a  time  pronounce 

If  they  were  safe  or  shot — 

For  Memory  brought  a  deed  to  match 

At  Deptford  done  by  night — 

Before  one  eye  appeared  a  Patch 

In  t'  other  eye  a  Blight ! 

To  be  belabored  out  of  life, 
Without  some  small  attempt  at  strife, 
Our  nature  will  not  grovel ; 
One  impulse  moved  both  man  and  dame. 
He  seized  the  tongs — she  did  the  same, 
Leaving  the  ruffian,  if  he  came, 
The  poker  and  the  shovel. 
Suppose  the  couple  standing  so, 
When  rushing  footsteps  from  below 
Made  pulses  fast  and  fervent ; 
And  first  burst  in  the  frantic  cat, 
All  steaming  like  a  brewer's  rat, 
And  then — as  white  as  my  cravat — 
Poor  Mary  May,  the  servant ! 

Lord,  hoAV  the  couple's  teeth  did  chatter, 

Master  and  Mistress  both  flew  at  her, 

"  Speak!  Fire?  or  Murder?  What's  the  matter?" 


r- 


A  REPORT  FROM  BELOW.  263 

Till  Mary  getting  breath, 

Upon  her  tale  began  to  touch 

With  rapid  tongue,  full  trotting,  such 

As  if  she  thought  she  had  too  much 

To  tell  before  her  death  : — 
"We  Tvas  both.  Ma'am,  in  the  wash-house,  Ma'am,  a-stand- 

ing  at  our  tubs, 
And  Mi-s.  Round  was  seconding  what  little  things  I  rubs ; 
'  Mary,'  says  she  to  me,  '  I  say"— and  there   she  stops  for 

coughin,' 
'  That  dratted  copper  flue  has  took  to  smokin'  very  often, 
But  please  the  pigs,'— for  thafs  her  way  of  swearing  in  a 

passion, 
'  I  '11  blow  it  up,  and  not  be  set  a  coughin'  in  this  fashion  !' 
Well,  down  she  takes  my  master's  horn— I  mean  his  horn 

for  loading, 
And  empties  every  grain  alive  for  to  set  the  flue  explodmg. 
Lawk,   :Mrs.   Round !  says  I,  and  stares,  that  quantum  is 

improper. 
I'm  sartin  sure  it  can't  not  take  a  pound  to  sky  a  copper ; 
You  '11  powder  both  our  heads  off,  so  I  tells  you,  with  its 

puff, 
But  she  only  dried  her  fingers,  and  she  takes  a  pmch  of 

snuff. 
Well,  when  the  pinch  is  over—'  Teach  your   grandmother 

to  suck 
A  powder  horn,'  says  she— Well,  says  I,  I  ^^ish  you  luck. 
Them  words  sets  up  her  back,  so  with  her  hands  upon  her 

hips, 
'  Come,'  says  she,  quite  in  a  huff,  '  come,  keep  your  tongue 

inside  your  lips : 
Afore  ever  you  was  born,  I  was  well  used  to  things  like 

these ; 


264  A  REPORT  FROM  BELOW. 

I  shall  put  it  in  the  grate,  and  let  it  burn  up  bj  degrees. 

So  in  it  goes,  and  Bounce — 0  Lord  1  it  gives  us  such  a 
rattle, 

I  thought  we  both  were  cannonized,  like  Sogers  in  a  battle ! 

Up  goes  the  copper  like  a  squib,  and  us  on  both  our  backs, 

And  bless  the  tubs,  they  bundled  off,  and  split  all  into  cracks. 

Well,  there  I  fainted  dead  away,  and  might  have  been  cut 
shorter. 

But  Providence  was  kind,  and  brought  me  to  with  scalding 
water. 

I  first  looks  round  for  Mrs.  Round,  and  sees  her  at  a  dis- 
tance, 

As  stiff  as  starch,  and  looked  as  dead  as  any  thing  in  exist- 
ence; 

All  scorched  and  grimed,  and  more  than  that,  I  sees  the 
copper  slap 

Bight  on  her  head,  for  all  the  world  like  a  percussion  cop- 
per cap. 

Well,  I  crooks  her  httle  fingers,  and  crumps  them  well  up 
together, 

As  humanity  pints  out,  and  burnt  her  nostrums  with  a 
feather. 

But  for  all  as  I  can  do,  to  restore  her  to  her  mortality, 

She  never  gives  a  sign  of  a  return  to  sensuality. 

Thinks  I,  well  there  she  lies,  as  dead  as  my  own  late  de- 
parted mother. 

Well,  she  '11  wash  no  more  in  this  world,  whatever  she  does 
in  t'  other. 

So  I  gives  myself  to  scramble  up  the  linens  for  a  minute, 

Lawk,  sich  a  shirt !  thinks  I,  it  "s  well  my  master  wasn't 
in  it ; 

Oh  !  I  never,  never,  never,  never,  never,  see  a  sight  so 
shockin' : 


EPIGRAM.  265 

Here  lays  a  leg,  and  there  a  leg — I  mean,  you  know,  a 

stocking — 
Bodies  all  slit  and  torn  to  rags,  and  many  a  tattered  skirt, 
And  arms  burnt  off,  and  sides  and  backs  all  scotched  and 

black  with  dirt ; 
But  as  nobody  was  in  'em — none  but — nobody  was  hurt ! 
Well,  there  I  am,  a-scrambling  up  the  things,  all  in  a  lump, 
When,  mercy  on  us  !  such  a  groan  as  makes  my  heart  to 

jump. 
And  there  she  is,  a-lying  with  a  crazy  sort  of  eye, 
A-staring  at  the  wash-house  roof,  laid  open  to  the  sky : 
Then  she  beckons  with  a  finger,   and  so  down  to  her  I 

reaches. 
And  puts  my  ear  agin  her  mouth  to  hear  her  dying  speeches, 
For,  poor  soul !  she  has  a  husband  and  young  orphans,  as  I 

knew ; 
Well,  Ma'am,  you  won't  believe  it,  but  it 's  Gospel  fact  and 

true. 
But  these  words  is  all  she  whispered — '  Why,  where  is  the 

powder  blew?'  " 


EPIGRAM 

ON  THE  DEPRECIATED  MOKEY. 

They  may  talk  of  the  plugging  and  sweating 

Of  our  coinage  that 's  minted  of  gold. 
But  to  me  it  produces  no  fretting 

Of  its  shortness  of  weight  to  be  told : 
All  the  sov' reigns  I  'm  able  to  levy 

As  to  lightness  can  never  bo  wrong, 
But  must  surely  be  some  of  them  heavy, 

For  I  never  can  carry  them  long. 


266  AN   ANCIENT   CONCERT. 


AN  ANCIENT  CONCERT. 

BY  A   TENERABLE   DIRECTOR. 

"  Give  me  old  music — let  me  hear 
The  songs  of  dai/s  gone  by !" — H.  F.  Choeley. 

0  !  COME,  all  ye  who  love  to  hear 

An  ancient  song  in  ancient  taste, 
To  Yrhom  all  bygone  ISIusic's  dear 

As  verdant  spots  in  jMemory's  waste  ! 
Its  name  "The  Ancient  Concert"  wrongs, 

And  has  not  hit  the  proper  clef, 
To  wit,  Old  Folks  to  sing  Old  Songs, 

To  Old  Subscribers  rather  deaf. 

Away,  then,  Hawes  !  with  all  your  band 

Ye  beardless  boys,  this  room  desert ! 
One  youthfal  voice,  or  youthful  hand, 

Our  concert-pitch  would  disconcert ! 
No  Bird  must  join  our  '•  vocal  throng," 

The  present  age  beheld  at  font : 
Away,  then,  all  ye  "  Sons  of  Song," 

Your  Fathers  are  the  men  we  want ! 

Away,  Miss  Birch,  you  "re  in  your  prime ! 

Miss  Komer,  seek  some  other  door ! 
Go,  Mrs.  Shaw !  till,  counting  time. 

You  count  you  're  nearly  fifty-four  ! 
Go,  Miss  Novello,  sadly  young ! 

Go,  thou  composing  Chevalier, 
And  roam  the  county  towns  among, 

No  Newcome  will  be  welcome  here ! 


AN   ANCIENT   CONCERT.  261 

Our  Concert  aims  to  give  at  night 

The  music  that  has  had  its  day  ! 
So,  Rooke,  for  us  you  can  not  ^vrite 

Till  time  has  made  you  Raven  grey. 
Your  score  may  chann  a  modern  ear, 

Xay.  ours,  when  three  or  fourscore  old, 
But  in  this  Ancient  atmosphere, 

Fresh  au's  like  yours  Tvould  give  us  cold ! 

Go,  HaTves,  and  Cawse,  and  Woodyat  go  ! 

Hence,  Shirreflf,  with  those  native  curls ; 
And  ]\Iaster  Coward  ought  to  know 

This  is  no  place  for  boys  and  girls  ! 
Ko  Massons  here  we  wish  to  see  ; 

Nor  is  it  Mrs.  Seguin's  sphere, 
And  Mrs.  B !  Oh  !  Mrs.  B , 

Such  Bishops  are  not  reverend  here  ! 

What  1  Grisi,  l^right  and  beaming  thus  ! 

To  sing  the  songs  gone  grey  with  age ! 
No,  Grisi.  no — ^l3ut  come  to  us 

And  welcome,  when  you  leave  the  stage  ! 
Off.  Ivanhoff ! — till  weak  and  harsh  ! — 

Rubini,  hence  !  Avith  all  the  clan  ! 
But  come,  Lablache,  years  hence,  Lablache 

A  little  shrivelled  thin  old  man. 

Go,  Mr.  Phillips,  where  you  please  ! 

Away,  Tom  Cooke,  and  all  your  batch ; 
You  "d  run  us  out  of  breath  with  Glees, 

And  Catches  that  we  could  not  catch. 
Away,  ye  Leaders  all.  who  lead 

"With  violins,  quite  modern  things  ; 
To  guide  our  Ancient  band  we  need 

Old  fiddles  out  of  leading  strings'; 


268  AN   AXCIEXT   CONCERT. 

But  come,  ye  Songsters,  over-ripe, 

That  into  "cliildish  trebles  break!" 
And  bring,  ^Miss  Winter,  bring  the  pipe 

That  can  not  sing  -without  a  shake  ! 
Naj,  come,  ye  Spinsters  all,  that  spin 

A  slender  thread  of  ancient  voice, 
Old  notes  that  almost  seem  called  in ; 

At  such  as  you  -sve  sJiall  rejoice  ! 

No  thundering  Thalbergs  here  shall  baulk, 

Or  ride  your  pet  D-cadence  o'er. 
But  fingers  with  a  little  chalk 

Shall,  moderato,  keep  the  score  ! 
No  Broadvroods  here,  so  full  of  tone, 

But  Harpsichords  assist  the  strain : 
No  Lincoln's  pipes,  we  have  our  own 

Bird-Organ,  built  by  Tubal-Caua. 

And  welcome !  St.  Cecilians,  now 

Te  willy-nilly,  ex-good  fellows, 
Who  will  strike  up,  no  matter  how, 

With  organs  that  survive  their  bellows ! 
And  bring,  0  brmg,  your  ancient  styles 

In  which  our  elders  loved  to  roam. 
Those  flourishes  that  strayed  for  miles. 

Till  some  good  fiddle  led  them  home ! 

0  come,  ye  ancient  London  Cries, 

When  Christmas  Carols  erst  were  sung ! 
Come,  Nurse,  who  droned  the  lullabies, 

"When  Music,  heavenly  Maid,  was  young  I" 
No  matter  how  the  critics  treat, 

AYhat  modern  sins  and  faults  detect. 
The  Copy-Book  shall  still  repeat, 

These  Concerts  must  '•'  Coimnand  respect!" 


THE   DriOWXING   DUCKS.  269 


THE  DROWXIXG  DUCKS. 

Amongst  the  sights  that  Mrs.  Bond 

Enjojed  yet  grieved  at  more  than  others, 

Were  little  ducklings  in  a  pond, 

Swimming  about  beside  their  mothers — 

Small  things  like  living  water  lilies, 

But  yellow  as  the  daffo-dillies. 

"It's  very  hard,"  she  used  to  moan, 
' '  That  other  people  have  their  ducklings 

To  grace  their  waters — mine  alone 
Have  never  any  pretty  chucklings." 

For  why  ! — each  little  yellow  navy 

Went  down — all  downy— to  old  Davy ! 

She  had  a  lake — a  pond  I  mean — 

Its  wave  was  rather  thick  than  pearly — 

She  had  two  ducks,  their  napes  were  green- 
She  had  a  drake,  his  tail  was  curly — 

Yet  spite  of  drake,  and  ducks,  and  pond, 

No  little  ducks  liad  Mrs.  Bond ! 

The  birds  were  both  the  best  of  mothers — 
The  nests  had  eggs — the  eggs  had  luck — 

The  infant  D.'s  came  forth  like  others — 
But  there,  alas !  the  matter  stuck  ! 

They  might  as  well  have  all  died  addle 

As  die  when  they  1)egan  to  paddle  ! 

For  when,  as  native  instinct  taught  her, 
The  mother  set  her  brood  afloat, 


270  THE   DROWNING   DUCKS. 

They  sank  ere  long  right  under  water, 

Like  any  over-loaded  boat ; 
They  were  web-footed  too  to  see, 
As  ducks  and  spiders  ought  to  be ! 

No  peccant  humor  in  a  gander 

Brought  havoc  on  her  little  folks — 

No  poaching  cooks — a  frying  pander 
To  appetite — destroyed  their  yolks — 

Beneath  her  very  eyes,  Od'  rot  'em ! 

They  went,  like  plummets,  to  the  bottom, 

The  thing  was  strange — a  contradiction 
It  seemed  of  nature  and  her  works  ! 

For  little  ducks,  beyond  conviction, 
Should  float  without  the  help  of  corks : 

Great  Johnson  it  bewildered  him ! 

To  hear  of  ducks  that  could  not  swim. 

Poor  Mrs.  Bond  !  what  could  she  do 

But  change  the  breed — and  she  tried  divers 

Which  dived  as  all  seemed  born  to  do  ; 
No  little  ones  were  e'er  survivors — 

Like  those  that  copy  gems,  I'm  thinking, 

They  all  were  given  to  die-sinking ! 

In  vain  their  downy  coats  were  shorn  ; 

They  floundered  still! — Batch  after  batch  went! 
The  little  fools  seemed  only  born 

And  hatched  for  nothing  but  a  hatchment! 
Whene'er  they  launched — 0  sight  of  wonder! 
Like  fires  the  water  "got  them  under!" 

No  woman  ever  gave  their  lucks 

A  better  chance  than  Mrs.  Bond  did; 


THE    DROWNING    DUCKS.  271 

At  last  quite  out  of  heart  and  ducks, 

She  gave  her  pond  up,  and  desponded; 
For  Death  among  the  water-lilies. 
Cried  "  Due  ad  me"'  to  all  her  dillies! 

But  though  resolved  to  breed  no  more, 

She  brooded  often  on  this  riddle — 
Alas!   'twas  darker  than  before! 

At  last  about  the  summer's  middle, 
What  Johnson,  Mrs.  Bond,  or  none  did, 

To  clear  the  matter  up  the  Sun  did ! 

The  thirsty  Sirius,  dog-like  drank 

So  deep,  his  furious  tongue  to  cool. 
The  shallow  waters  sank  and  sank, 

And  lo,  from  out  the  wasted  pool. 
Too  hot  to  hold  them  any  longer. 
There  crawled  some  eels  as  big  as  conger  1 

I  wish  all  folks  would  look  a  bit, 

In  such  a  case  below  the  surface ; 
But  when  the  eels  were  caught  and  split 

By  Mrs.  Bond,  just  think  of  her  face, 
In  each  inside  at  once  to  spy 
A  duckling  turned  to  giblet-pie ! 

The  sight  at  once  explained  the  case, 

Making  the  Dame  look  rather  silly, 
The  tenants  of  that  Eebj  Place 

Had  found  the  way  to  Pick  a  d'lUy, 
And  so  ]jy  under-water  suction. 
Had  wrought  the  little  ducks'  abduction. 


272  THE   FALL. 

THE  FALL. 

"  Down,  down,  down,  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep." — CotrNT  Fathom. 

Who  does  not  know  that  dreadful  gulf,  wliere  Niagara 

falls, 
Where  eagle  unto  eagle  screams,  to  vulture  vulture  calls ; 
Where  down  beneath,  Despair  and  Death  in  liquid  darkness 

grope, 
And  upward,  on  the  foam  there  shines  a  rainbow  witliout 

Hope ; 
While,  hung  with  clouds  of  Fear  and  Doubt,  the  unreturning 

wave 
Suddenly  gives  an  awful  plunge,  like  life  into  the  grave : 
And  many  a  hapless  mortal  there  hath  dived  to  bale  or 

bliss ; 
One— only  one — hath  ever  lived  to  rise  from  that  abyss  ! 
Oh,   Heav'n !  it  turns  me  now  to   ice  with   chill   of  fear 

extreme, 
To  think  of  my  frail  bark  adrift  on  that  tumultuous  stream ! 
In  vain  with  desperate  sinews,  strung  by  love  of  life  and 

and  light, 
I  urged  that  coffin,  my  canoe,  against  the  current's  might : 
On — on — still  on — direct  for  doom,  the  river  rushed  in  force. 
And   fearfully  the  stream  of  Time  raced  with   it    in  its 

course. 
My  eyes  I  closed — I  dared  not  look  the  way  towards  the 

goal; 
But  still  I  viewed  the  horrid  close,  and  dreamt  it  in  my 

soul. 
Plainly,   as   iLioigh  transparent   lids,   I   saw  the   fleeting 

shore, 
And  lofty  trees,  like  winged  things,  flit  by  for  evermore ; 


THE   FALL.  273 

Plainly — but  "^ith  no  prophet  sense — I  heard  the  sullen 

sound, 
The  torrent's  voice — and  felt  the  mist,   like   death-sweat 

gathering  round. 

0  agony !   0  life  !  My  home !  and  those  that  made  it  sweet : 
Ere  I  could  pray,  the  torrent  lay  beneath  my  very  feet. 
With  frightful  whirl,  more  swift  than  thought,  I  passed  the 

dizzy  edge. 
Bound  after  bound,  with  hideous  bruise,  I  dashed  from  ledge 

to  ledge, 
From  crag  to  crag — in  speechless  pam — -from  midnight  deep 

to  deep ; 

1  did  not  die — ^but  anguish  stunned  my  senses  into  sleep. 
How  long  entranced,  or  whither  dived,  no  clue  I  have  to 

find: 
At  last  the  gradual  light  of  life  came  dawning  o"er  my 

mind; 
And  through  my  brain  there  thrilled  a  cry — a  cry  as  shrill 

as  birds' 
Of  vulture  or  of  eagle  kind,  but  this  was  set  to  words  : — 
'•It's  Edgar  Huntley  in  his  cap  and  night-gown,  I  declares  I 
He 's  been  a  walkmg  in  his  sleep,  and  pitched  all  down  the 

stairs !" 

12* 


THE   STEAM    SERTICE 

"  Life  is  but  a  kittle  cast." — Buess. 

The  time  is  not  yet  come — but  come  it  -will — when  the 
masts  of  our  Royal  Navy  shall  be  unshipped,  and  huge 
unsightly  chimneys  be  erected  in  their  place.  The  trident 
will  be  taken  out  of  the  hand  of  Neptune,  and  replaced  by 
the  effigy  of  a  red-hot  poker;  the  Union  Jack  will  look 
like  a  smoke-jack ;  and  Lambtons,  Russels,  and  Adairs  will 
130  made  Admirals  of  the  Black  ;  the  forecastle  will  be 
called  the  Newcastle,  and  the  cock-pit  will  be  termed  the 
coal-pit ;  a  man-of-war's  tender  will  be  nothing  but  a 
Shields'  collier ;  first-lieutenants  will  have  to  attend  lec- 
tures on  the  steam-engine,  and  mid-shipmen  must  take 
lessons  as  climbing-boys  in  the  art  of  sweeping  flues.  In 
short,  the  good  old  tune  of  '■  Rule  Britannia"'  Avill  give 
way  to  "  Polly  put  the  Kettle  on;"  while  the  Victory,  the 
jMajestic,  and  the  Thunderer  of  Great  Britain  will  "paddle 
in  the  burn,"'  like  the  Harlequin,  the  Dart,  and  the  Mag- 
net of  Margate. 

It  will  be  well  for  our  song-writers  to  bear  a  wary  eye  to 
the  Fleet,  if  they  would  prosper  as  Marine  Poets.  Some 
sea  Gurney  may  get  a  seat  at  the  Admiralty  Board,  and 
then  farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  the  old  ocean  imagery  : 
marine  metaphor  will  requu-e  a  new  figure-head.     Flowing 


THE   STEAM   SERVICE. 


275 


sheets,  snowy  wings,  and  the  old  comparison  of  a  ship  to  a 
bird,  will  become  obsolete  and  out  of  date  !  Poetical  top- 
sails will  be  taken  aback,  and  all  such  things  as  reefs  and 
double-reefs  will  be  shaken  out  of  song.  For  my  own  part, 
I  cannot  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  I  have  not  sought  a 
Helicon  of  salt  water ;  or  canvassed  the  Nine  Muses  as  a 
writer  for  their  Marine  Library ;  or  made  Pegasus  a  sea- 
horse, when  sea-horses  as  well  as  land-horses  are  equally 
likely  to  be  superseded  by  steam.  After  such  a  consumma- 
tion, when  the  sea  service,  like  the  tea  service,  will  depend 
chiefly  on  boiling  water,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  the 
Fleet  will  be  worthy  of  any  thing  but  plaui  prose.  I  have 
tried  to  adapt  some  of  our  popular  blue  ballads  to  the 
boiler,  and  Dibdin  certainly  does  not  steam  quite  so  well  as 
a  potatoe.  However,  if  his  Sea  Songs  are  to  be  in  immor- 
tal use,  they  will  have  to  be  revised  and  corrected  in  future 
editions  thus  : — 

I  steamed  from  the  Downs  in  the  Nancy, 

My  jib  how  she  smoked  through  the  breeze. 
She 's  a  vessel  as  tight  to  my  fancy 

As  ever  boiled  through  the  salt  seas. 

***** 
When  up  the  flue  the  sailor  goes 

And  ventures  on  the  ^jo^, 
The  landsman,  he  no  better  knows, 

But  thinks  hard  is  his  lot. 

Bold  Jack  with  smiles  each  danger  meets, 

Weighs  anchor,  lights  the  log ; 
Trims  up  the  fire ^  picks  out  the  slates, 

And  di'inks  his  can  of  grog. 

***** 


276  THE    STEAM    SERVICE. 

Go  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs  do  you  see,  . 

"Bout  danger,  and  fear,  and  tlie  like  ; 
But  a  Boiiltoii  and  Watt  and  good  Wall' s-end  give  me  ; 

And  it  ain't  to  a  little  I  "11  strike. 

Though  the  tempest  our  chimney  smack  smooth  shall  down 
smite, 

AxA  shiver  each  bundle  of  wood  ; 
Clear  the  wreck,  stir  the  fire,  and  stow  every  thmg  tight. 

And  hoiVuKj  a  gallop  we  '11  scud. 

I  have  cooked  Stevens's,  or  rather  Incledon's  Storm  in 
the  same  way  ;  but  the  pathos  does  not  seem  any  the  ten- 
derer for  stewing. 

Hark,  the  boatswain  hoarsely  bawling, 

By  shovel,  tongs,  and  poker,  stand ; 
Down  the  scuttle  quick  be  hauling, 

Down  your  bellows,  hand,  boys,  hand. 
Now  it  freshens — blow  like  blazes  ; 

Now  unto  the  coal-hole  go  ; 
Stir,  boys,  stir,  don  t  mind  black  faces, 

Up  your  ashes  nimbly  throw. 

Ply  your  bellows,  raise  the  wind,  boys, 

See  the  valve  is  clear,  of  course ; 
Let  the  paddles  spin,  don't  mind,  boys, 

Thouo-h  the  weather  should  be  worse. 
Fore  and  aft  a  proper  draft  get. 

Oil  the  encrines.,  see  all  clear ; 
Hands  up,  each  a  sack  of  coal  get, 

Man  the  boiler,  cheer,  lads,  cheer. 

Now  the  dreadful  thunder  's  roaring, 
Peal  on  peal  contending  clash  ; 


THE   STEAM   SERVICE.  277 

On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring, 

In  our  eyes  the  paddles  splash. 
One  Avide  water  all  around  us, 

All  above  one  smoke-black  sky : 
Different  deaths  at  once  surround  us ; 

Hark  !  what  means  that  dreadful  cry  ? 

The  funnel  "s  gone  !  cries  ev'ry  tongue  out, 

The  engineer 's  washed  off  the  deck  ; 
A  leak  beneath  the  coal-hole  's  sprung  out, 

Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 
Quick,  some  coal,  some  nubbly  pieces ; 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold ; 
Plumb  the  boiler,  speed  decreases, 

Four  feet  water  getting  cold. 

While  o"er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating, 

"We  for  wives  or  children  mourn  ; 
Alas  !  from  hence  there  's  no  retreating ; 

Alas  !  to  them  there  "s  no  return. 
The  fire  is  out — we  've  burst  the  bellows, 

The  tinder-box  is  swamped  below ; 
Heaven  have  mercy  on  poor  fellows, 

For  only  that  can  serve  us  now  ! 


Devoutly  do  I  hope  that  the  kettle,  though  a  great  voca- 
list, will  never  thus  appropriate  the  old  Sea  Songs  of  Eng- 
land. In  the  words  of  an  old  Greenwich  pensioner— 
••  Steaming  and  biling  does  very  well  for  Urn  Bay,  and  the 
likes  ;"  but  the  craft  does  not  look  regular  and  shipshape  to 
the  eye  of  a  tar  who  has  sailed  with  Duncan,  Howe,  and 
Jar^^s— and  who  would  rather  even  go  without  port  than 
have  it  through  sl  funnel. 


278  A   LAY    OF   REAL   LIFE. 


A   LAY   OF    REAL    LIFE. 

"Some  are  born  ■with  a  wooden  spoon  In  their  mouths,  and  some  with  a  golden 
ladle." — Goldsmith. 

"  Some  arc  born  with  tin  rings  in  their  noses,  and  some  with  silver  ones." — Silter- 

SMITn. 

Who  ruined  me  ere  I  was  born, 
Sold  every  acre,  grass  or  corn, 
And  left  the  next  heir  all  forlorn  ? 

My  Grandfather. 

Who  said  my  mother  was  no  nurse, 
And  physicked  me  and  made  me  worse, 
Till  infancy  became  a  curse  ? 

My  Grandmother. 

Who  left  me  in  my  seventh  year, 
A  comfort  to  my  mother  dear. 
And  Mr.  Pope,  the  overseer  ? 

My  Father. 

Who  let  me  starve  to  buy  her  gin, 

Till  all  my  bones  came  through  my  skin, 

Then  called  me  '•  ugly  little  sin  ?"' 

]My  Mother. 

Who  said  my  mother  was  a  Turk 
And  took  me  home — and  made  me  work. 
But  managed  half  my  meals  to  shirk  ? 

ISIy  Aunt. 

Who  "of  all  earthly  things''  would  boast, 
"  He  hated  others'  brats  the  most," 
And  therefore  made  me  feel  my  post  ? 

My  Uncle. 


A    LAY    OF    REAL    LIFE.  279 

Who  got  in  scrapes,  an  endless  score, 
And  always  laid  them  at  my  door, 
Till  many  a  bitter  bang  I  bore  ? 

My  Cousin. 

Vlho  took  me  home  Avhen  mother  died, 
Again  with  father  to  reside, 
Black  shoes,  clean  knives,  run  far  and  wide  ? 

My  Stepmother. 

Who  marred  my  stealthy  urchin  joys. 

And  when  I  played  cried  "  What  a  noise !" — 

Girls  always  hector  over  boys — 

My  Sister. 

Who  used  to  share  in  what  w\as  mine, 
Or  took  it  all,  did  he  incline, 
'Cause  I  was  eight,  and  he  was  nine? 

My  Brother. 

Who  stroked  my  head,  and  said  "  Good  lad," 
And  gave  me  sixpence,  '•  all  he  had;" 
But  at  the  stall  the  coin  was  bad  ? 

My  Godfather. 

Who,  gratis,  shared  my  social  glass, 
But  when  misfortune  came  to  pass 
Referred  me  to  the  pump  ?     Alas ! 

My  Friend. 

Through  all  this  weary  world,  in  brief. 
Who  ever  sympathized  with  grief, 
Or  shared  my  joy — my  sole  relief? 

Myself. 


280  THE  angler's  farewell. 

THE  ANGLER'S   FARE^VELL. 

"Eesigned,  I  kissed  the  rod." 

Well  !  I  think  it  is  time  to  put  up  ! 
For  it  does  not  accord  with  my  notions, 

Wrist,  elbow,  and  chine, 

Stiff  fi'om  throwing  the  Ime, 
To  take  nothing  at  last  by  my  motions  ! 

I  ground-bait  my  way  as  I  go, 
And  dip  at  each  watery  dimple  ; 

But  however  I  wish 

To  inveigle  the  fish. 
To  my  gentle  they  will  not  play  simple  I 

Though  my  float  goes  so  swimmingly  on, 
!i\Iy  bad  luck  never  seems  to  diminish  ; 

It  would  seem  that  the  Bream 

Must  be  scarce  in  the  stream. 
And  the  Chuh^  tho'  it 's  chubby,  be  thinnish  ! 

Ixot  a  Trout  there  can  be  in  the  place, 
Kot  a  Grayling  or  Rud  worth  the  mention, 

Ajid  although  at  my  hook 

With  attention  I  look, 
I  can  ne'er  see  my  hook  with  a  Tench  on  ! 

At  a  brandling  once  Gudgeon  would  gape, 
But  they  seem  upon  different  terms  now  ; 

Have  they  taken  advice 

Of  the  "  Council  of  Nice,'' 
And  rejected  their  ^'- Diet  of  Worms,''  now? 


THE  angler's  farewell.  281 

In  vain  my  live  minnow  I  spin, 

Not  a  Pike  seems  to  tliink  it  worth  snatching ; 

For  the  gut  I  have  brought, 

I  had  better  have  bought 
A  good  Tope  that  was  used  to  Jack-ketching  ! 

Not  a  nibble  has  ruffled  my  cork. 
It  is  vain  in  this  river  to  search  then ; 

I  may  wait  till  it 's  night. 

Without  any  bite. 
And  at  roost-time  have  never  a  Perch  then ! 

No  Roach  can  I  meet  with — no  Bleak, 
Save  what  in  the  air  is  so  sharp  now ; 

Not  a  Dace  have  I  got, 

And  I  fear  it  is  not 
"  Carpe  diem,"  a  day  for  the  Carp  now .. 

Oh  !  there  is  not  a  one  pound  prize 
To  be  got  in  this  fresh-water  lottery ! 

What  then  can  I  deem 

Of  so  fishless  a  stream 
But  that  'tis— like  St.  Mary's — Otteryl 

For  an  Eel  I  have  learned  hoAv  to  try. 
By  a  method  of  Walton's  own  showing — 

But  a  fisherman  feels 

Little  prospect  of  Eels, 
In  a  path  that's  devoted  to  towing! 

I  have  tried  all  the  water  for  miles. 
Till  I  'm  weary  of  dipping  and  casting 

And  hungry  and  fxint — 

Let  the  Fancy  just  paint 
What  it  is,  without  F'ish,  to  be  Fasting  ! 


282  SEA   SONG. 

« 

And  the  rain  drizzles  down  very  fast,    ■ 
While  mj  dinner-time  sounds  from  a  far-bell- 

So,  wet  to  the  skin, 

I  '11  e'en  back  to  my  Inn, 
Where  at  least  I  am  sure  of  a  Bar-bell! 


SEA  SONG. 

AFTER    DIBDIN. 

Pure  water  it  plays  a  good  part  in 

The  swabbing  the  decks  and  all  that — 
And  it  finds  its  own  level  for  sartin — 

For  it  sartinly  drinks  very  flat  :— 
For  my  part  a  drop  of  the  creatur 

I  never  could  think  was  a  fault, 
For  if  Tars  should  swig  water  by  natur, 

The  sea  would  have  never  been  salt  !- 
Then  off  with  it  into  a  jorum 

And  make  it  strong,  sharpish,  or  sweet, 
For  if  I  've  any  sense  of  decorum 

It  never  was  meant  to  be  neat ! — 

One  day  when  I  was  but  half  sober — 

Half  measures  I  always  disdain — 
I  walked  into  a  shop  that  sold  Soda, 

And  ax'd  for  some  Water  Champagne  : — 
Well,  the  lubber  he  dre-w  and  he  drew,  boys. 

Till  I  'd  shipped  my  six  bottles  or  more. 
And  blow  off  my  last  limb  but  it 's  true,  boys, 

Why,  I  warn't  half  so  drunk  as  afore  ! — 
Then  off  with  it  into  a  jorum. 

And  make  it  strong,  sharpish,  or  sweet, 
For  if  I  've  any  sense  of  decorum, 

It  never  was  meant  to  be  neat. 


THE   APPARITION.  283 


THE  APPARITION. 


In  the  dead  of  the  night,  when  from  beds  that  are  turfy, 

The  spirits  rise  up  on  old  cronies  to  call, 
Came  a  shade  from  the  Shades  on  a  visit  to  jMurphy, 

AVho  had  not  foreseen  such  a  visit  at  all. 

"  Don't  shiver  and  shake,"  said  the  mild  Apparition, 
'•  I  'm  come  to  your  bed  with  no  evil  design  ; 

I  "m  the  Spirit  of  Moore,  Francis  Moore  the  Physician, 
Once  great  like  yourself  in  the  Almanack  line. 

'•  Like  you  I  was  once  a  great  prophet  on  weather, 
And  deemed  to  possess  a  more  prescient  knack 

Than- dogs,  frogs,  pigs,  cattle,  or  cats,  all  together, 
The  donkeys  that  bray,  and  the  dillies  that  quack. 

'' Witii  joy,  then,  as  ashes  retain  former  passion, 
I  saw  my  old  mantle  lugged  out  from  the  shelf, 

Turned,  trimmed,  and  brushed  up,  and  again  brought  in 
foshion, 
I  seemed  to  be  almost  reviving  myself ! 

"  But,  oh  !  from  my  joys  there  was  soon  a  sad  cantle — 
As  too  many  cooks  make  a  mull  of  the  broth — 

To  find  that  two  Prophets  were  under  my  mantle, 
And  pulling  two  ways  at  the  risk  of  the  cloth. 

'•  Unless  you  would  meet  with  an  awkwardish  tumble, 
Oh  !  join  like  the  Siamese  twins  in  your  jumps  ; 

Just  fancy  if  Faith  on  her  Prophets  should  stumble, 
The  Olio  in  hi?  clogs,  and  the  other  in  pumps ' 


284  LITTLE    O'P. AX    AFRICAN    FACT. 

■  •  But  think  how  tlie  people  vrould  worship  and  wonder, 
To  j&nd  you  '  hail  fellows,  well  met,'  in  your  hail, 

In  one  tune  with  your  rain,  and  your  wind,  and  your  thunder, 
'  'Fore  God.'  they  would  cry,  '  they  are  both  in  a  tale' !" 


LITTLE  OT.— AN  AFRICAN  FACT. 

It  was  July  the  First,  and  the  great  hill  of  Howth 

"Was  bearing  by  compass  sow-west  and  by  south. 

And  the  name  of  the  ship  was  the  Peggy  of  Cork, 

Well  freighted  with  bacon  and  butter  and  pork. 

Now,  this  ship  had  a  captain,  Macmorris  by  name, 

And  little  0' Patrick  was  mate  of  the  same; 

For  Bristol  they  sailed,  but  by  nautical  scope. 

They  contrived  to  be  lost  by  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

Of  all  the  Cork  boys  that  the  vessel  could  boast. 

Only  little  O'P.  made  a  swim  to  the  coast ; 

And  when  he  revived  from  a  sort  of  a  trance, 

He  saw  a  big  Black  with  a  very  long  lance. 

Says  the  savage,  says  he,  in  some  Hottentot  tongue 

"  Bash  Kuku  my  gimmel  bo  gomborry  bung  !" 

Then  blew  a  long  shell,  to  the  fright  of  our  elf, 

Ajid  down  came  a  hundred  as  black  as  himself 

They  brought  with  them  (juaitul.  and  pieces  of  klarn^ 

The  first  was  like  beef,  and  the  second  like  lamb ; 

'•  Don't  I  know,"  said  O'P.,  "  what  the  wretches  are  at  ? 

••  They  're  intending  to  eat  me  as  soon  as  I  'm  fat !" 

In  terror  of  coming  to  pan,  spit,  or  pot. 

His  rations  of  jarhul  he  suffered  to  rot ; 

He  would  not  touch  purrij  or  doolberry-lUx', 

But  kept  himself  ^ro?':"/;/^  as  thin  as  a  stick. 


LITTLE    O'P. — AX   AFRICAN   FACT.  285 

Thouo-li  hroiling  the  climate,  and  parching  with  drouth, 

He  would  not  let  chobbery  enter  his  mouth, 

But  kicked  down  the  hrug  shell,  tho'  sweetened  with  natt- 

'•  I  an't  to  be  pisoned  the  likes  of  a  rat !" 

At  last  the  great  Joddry  got  quite  in  a  rage, 

And  cried,  '•  O  mi  pitticum  damballj  nage  ! 

The  chobbery  take,  and  put  back  on  the  shelf, 

Or  give  mc  the  knig  shell,  I  "11  drmk  it  myself! 

The  doolberry-Uk  is  the  best  to  be  had, 

And  the  jmrry  (I  chewed  it  myself)  is  not  bad; 

The  jarbul  is  fresh,  for  I  saw  it  cut  out, 

And  the  Bok  that  it  came  from  is  grazmg  about. 

ISljjumho!  but  run  off  to  Billery  Nang, 

And  tell  her  to  put  on  hevjif/ger  and  tang, 

And  go  with  the  BIoss  to  the  man  of  the  sea, 

And  say  that  she  comes  as  his  Wulicid  from  me." 

Kow  Billery  Xang  was  as  Black  as  a  sweep. 

With  thick  cuidj  hair  like  the  wool  of  a  sheep, 

And  the  moment  he  spied  her,  said  little  OT., 

"  Sure  the  Divil  is  dead,  and  his  Widow 's  at  me !" 

But  when,  in  the  blaze  of  her  Hottentot  charms. 

She  came  to  accept  hmi  for  life  in  her  ai-ms, 

And  stretched  her  thick  lips  to  a  broad  grin  of  love, 

A  Raven  preparing  to  bill  like  a  Dove, 

With  a  soul  full  of  dread  he  declmed  the  grim  bliss, 

Stopped  her  Molyneux  arms,  and  eluded  her  kiss ; 

At  last  fairly  foiled,  she  gave  up  the  attack, 

And  Jeddry  began  to  look  blacker  than  black ; 

"By  ]Mumbo  !  by  Jumbo  I — why  here  is  a  man, 

That  won't  be  made  happy  do  all  that  I  can  ; 

lie  will  not  be  married,  lodged,  clad,  and  well  fed, 

Let  the  Rham  take  his  shangwang  and  chop  off  his  head !"' 


286  CONVEYANCING. 


CONVEYANCING. 

0,  London  is  the  place  for  all 

In  love  with  loco-motion  ! 
Still  to  and  fro  the  people  go 

Like  billows  of  the  ocean  ; 
Machine  or  man,  or  caravan, 

Can  all  be  had  for  paying, 
When  great  estates,  or  heavy  weights, 

Or  bodies  want  conveying. 

There  's  always  hacks  about  in  packs, 

Wherein  you  may  be  shaken, 
And  Jarvis  is  not  always  drunk, 

Tho'  always  overtaken; 
Jn  racmg  tricks  he  '11  never  mix. 

His  nags  are  in  their  last  days, 
And  slow  to  go,  altho'  they  show 

As  if  they  had  their  fast  days  ! 

Then  if  you  like  a  single  horse, 

This  age  is  quite  a  cab-age, 
A  car  not  quite  so  small  and  light 

As  those  of  our  Queen  Mab  age ; 
The  horses  have  been  broken  loell, 

All  danger  is  rescinded. 
For  some  have  broken  both  their  knees 

And  some  are  broken  winded. 

If  you  've  a  friend  at  Chelsea  end, 
The  stages  are  worth  knowing — 

There  is  a  sort,  we  call  'em  short, 
Although  the  longest  going — 


CONVEYANCING.  287 

For  some  Avill  stop  at  Hatchett's  shop, 

Till  jou  grow  faint  and  sicky, 
Perched  up  behind,  at  last  to  find, 

Your  dinner  is  all  dickey  ! 

Long  stages  run  from  every  yard ; 

But  if  you  're  wise  and  frugal, 
You  "11  never  go  with  any  Guard 

That  plays  upon  the  bugle, 
"Ye  banks  and  braes,"  and  other  lays 

And  ditties  everlasting, 
Like  miners  going  all  your  way, 

With  boring  and  with  blasting. 

Instead  oi journeys,  people  now 

May  go  upon  a  Guruey, 
With  steam  to  do  the  horses'  work. 

By  -powers  of  attorney  ; 
Tho'  with  a  load  it  may  explode, 

And  you  may  all  be  ?<«-done  ! 
And  find  you  're  going  np  to  Heaven^ 

Listead  of  np  to  London  ! 

To  speak  of  every  kind  of  coach 

It  is  not  my  intention ; 
But  there  is  still  one  vehicle 

Deserves  a  little  mention  ; 
The  world  a  sage  has  called  a  stage, 

With  all  its  living  lumber, 
And  IMalthus  swears  it  always  bears 

Above  the  proper  number. 

The  law  will  transfer  house  or  land 
For  ever  and  a  day  hence, 


288  THE    BURNIXG    OF   THE    LOVE    LETTER. 

For  lighter  things,  "watch, brooches,  rings, 
You  "11  never  want  conveyance  ; 

Ho!  stop  the  thief !  my  handkerchief ! 
It  is  no  sight  for  lauo-hter — ■ 

Away  it  goes,  and  leaves  my  nose 
To  join  in  running  after  ! 


THE   BURNING   OF   THE   LOVE  LETTER. 

"  Sometimes  they  were  put  to  the  proof,  hy  what  was  called  the  Fiery  Ordeal.' 

HiSTOET   OF  EXGLA>1). 

No  morning  ever  seemed  so  long  ! — 
I  tried  to  read  with  all  my  might ! 

In  my  left  hand  '•  My  Landlord's  Tales,'' 
And  threepence  ready  in  my  right. 

'Twas  twelve  at  last — my  heart  beat  high  ! — 
The  Postman  rattled  at  the  door  ! — 

And  just  upon  her  road  to  church, 
I  dropt  the  '•  Bride  of  Lammermoor!" 

I  seized  the  note — I  flew  up  stairs — 
Flung-to  the  door,  and  locked  me  in — 

With  panting  haste  I  tore  the  seal —     • 
And  kissed  the  B  in  Benjamin  ! 

'T  was  fiill  of  love — to  rhyme  with  dove — 
And  all  that  tender  sort  of  thino- — 

Of  sweet  and  meet — and  heart  and  dart — 
But  not  a  word  about  a  rino; ! — 

In  doubt  I  cast  it  in  the  flame. 

And  stood  to  watch  the  latest  spark — 

And  saw  the  love  all  end  in  smoke — 
Without  a  Parson  and  a  Clerk ! 


POEM — FROM  THE  POLISH.  289 


POEM— FRO^r  THE  POLISH. 

Some  months  since  a  young  lady  was  much  surprised  at  receiving  from  the  Captain 
of  a  Whaler,  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  folded  in  the  form  of  a  letter,  and  duly  sealed. 
At  last,  recollecting  the  nature  of  the  sympathetic  ink,  she  placed  the  missive  on  a 
toasting-fork,  and  after  holding  it  to  the  fire  for  a  minute  or  two  succeeded  in  thawing 
out  the  following  verses; 

From  seventy-two  North  latitude, 

Dear  Kitty,  I  indite ; 
But  first  I  "d  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write. 

Of  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  bum, 

My  Kitty,  do  not  think — 
Before  I  wrote  these  very  lines, 

I  had  to  melt  my  ink. 

Of  mutual  flames  and  lover's  warmth. 

You  must  not  be  too  nice ; 
The  sheet  that  I  am  writing  on 

Was  once  a  sheet  of  ice ! 

The  Polar  cold  is  sharp  enough 

To  freeze  with  icy  gloss 
The  genial  current  of  the  soul, 

E'en  in  a  '•  Man  of  Boss.'' 

Pope  says  that  letters  waft  a  sigh 

From  Indus  to  the  Pole ; 
But  here  I  really  wish  the  post 

"Would  only  "  post  the  coaV 

So  chilly  is  the  Northern  blast. 

It  blows  me  through  and  through  : 
A  ton  of  Wallsend  in  a  note 

Would  be  a  billet-doux  ! 
13 


290  POEM — FROM    THE    POLISH. 

In  such  a  frigid  latitude 

It  scarce  can  be  a  sin, 
Should  Passion  cool  a  little,  where 

A  Fury  was  iced  in. 

I  'm  rather  tired  of  endless  snow, 

And  lon^f  for  coals  ao;ain; 
And  would  give  up  a  Sea  of  Ice, 

For  some  of  Lambton's  Main. 

I  'm  sick  of  dazzling  ice  and  snow, 

The  sun  itself  I  hate ; 
So  very  bright,  so  very  cold, 

Just  like  a  summer  grate. 

For  opodeldoc  I  would  kneel, 
My  chilblains  to  anoint; 

0  Kate,  the  needle  of  the  north 
Has  got  a  freezing  point. 

Our  food  is  solids — ere  we  put 

Our  meat  into  our  crops, 
"We  take  sledge-hammers  to  our  steaks 

And  hatchets  to  our  chops. 

So  very  bitter  is  the  blast. 
So  cutting  is  the  air, 

1  never  have  been  warm  but  once, 
When  hugging  with  a  bear. 

One  thing  I  know  you  '11  like  to  hear, 
Th'  effect  of  Polar  snows, 

I  've  left  off  snuff — one  pinching  day — 
From  lea\dng  off  my  nose. 


POEM — FROM   THE   POLISH. 

I  have  no  ear  for  music  now ; 

ISIy  ears  both  left  together ; 
And  as  for  dancing,  I  have  cut 

My  toes — it 's  cutting  weather. 

I  've  said  that  you  should  have  my  hand, 

Some  happy  day  to  come ; 
But,  Kate,  you  only  now  can  wed 

A  finger  and  a  thumb. 

Don't  fear  that  any  Esquimaux 
Can  wean  me  from  my  own ; 

The  Girdle  of  the  Queen  of  Love 
Is  not  the  Frozen  Zone. 

At  wives  with  large  estates  of  snow 

My  fancy  does  not  bite ; 
I  like  to  see  a  Bride — ^but  not 

In  such  a  deal  of  white. 

Give  me  for  home  a  house  of  brict. 

The  Kate  I  love  at  Kew ! 
A  hand  unchopped— a  merry  eye, 

And  not  a  nose,  of  blue ! 

To  think  upon  the  Bridge  of  Kew, 

To  me  a  bridge  of  sighs ; 
Oh,  Kate,  a  pair  of  icicles 

Are  standing  in  my  eyes  1 

God  knows  if  I  shall  e'er  return, 

In  comfort  to  be  lulled  ; 
But  if  I  do  get  back  to  port, 

Pray  let  me  have  it  mulled. 


291 


292  FRENCH   AND    ENGLISH. 


FRENCH  AND  ENGLISH. 

'Good  heaven!  Why  even  the  little  children  iu  France  speak  French  1" 

Addibok. 

Never  go  to  France 

Unless  you  know  the  lingo, 
If  you  do,  like  me, 

You  will  repent  by  jingo. 
Staring  like  a  fool, 

And  silent  as  a  mummy, 
There  I  stood  alone, 

A  nation  with  a  dummy : 

Chaises  stand  for  chairs. 

They  christen  letters  Billies^ 
They  call  their  mothers  mares, 

And  all  their  daughters  ^//«es  ; 
Strange  it  was  to  hear, 

I  '11  tell  you  what 's  a  good  'un, 
They  call  their  leather  queer, 

And  half  their  shoes  are  wooden. 

Signs  I  had  to  make. 

For  every  little  notion. 
Limbs  all  going  like 

A  telegraph  in  motion. 
For  wine  I  reeled  about. 

To  show  my  meaning  fully 
And  made  a  pair  of  horns. 

To  ask  for  "  beef  and  bully." 

Moo  !  I  cried  for  milk ; 

I  got  my  sweet  things  snugger, 


FRENCH   AND    ENGLISH.  293 

When  I  kissed  Jeannette, 

"T  was  understood  for  sugar. 
If  I  wanted  bread, 

My  jaws  I  set  a-going, 
And  asked  for  new-laid  eggs. 

By  clapping  hands  and  crowing ! 

If  I  wished  a  ride, 

I  "11  tell  3^ou  how  I  got  it; 
On  my  stick  astride, 

I  made  believe  to  trot  it ; 
Then  their  cash  was  strange, 

It  bored  me  every  minute, 
Kow  here 's  a  hog  to  change, 

How  many  sows  are  in  it ! 

Never  go  to  France, 

Unless  you  know  the  lingo; 
If  you  do,  like  me, 

You  will  repent,  by  jingo; 
Staring  like  a  fool, 

And  silent  as  a  mununy. 
There  I  stood  alone, 

A  nation  with  a  dummy ! 


OUR    VILLAGE. 

"Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain." — Goldsmith. 

I  HAVE  a  great  anxiety  to  become  a  topographer,  and  I 
do  not  know  that  I  can  make  an  easier  commencement  of 
the  character,  than  bj  attempting  a  description  of  our  vil- 
lage. It  will  be  found,  as  mj  friend  the  landlord  over  the 
waj  sajs,  that  "  things  are  drawn  mildy 

I  live  opposite  the  Green  ]\Ian.  I  know  that  to  be  the 
sign,  in  spite  of  the  picture,  because  I  am  told  of  the  fact 
in  large  gilt  letters,  in  three  several  places.  The  whole- 
length  portrait  of  '"  I'honmie  vercl'^  is  rather  imposing.  He 
stands  plump  before  you,  in  a  sort  of  wrestling  attitude,  the 
legs  standing  distinctly  apart,  in  a  brace  of  decided  boots, 
with  dun  tops,  joined  to  a  pair  of  creole-colored  leather 
breeches.  The  rest  of  his  dress  is  peculiar ;  the  coat,  a 
two-flapper,  green  and  brown,  or,  as  they  say  at  the  tap, 
half-and-half ;  a  cocked  hat  on  the  half  cock ;  a  short  belt 
crossing  the  breast  like  a  flat  gas-pipe.  The  one  hand  stuck 
on  the  greeny -brown  hip  of  my  friend,  in  the  other  a  gim 
with  a  barrel  like  an  entire  butt,  and  the  butt  like  a  brewer's 
whole  stock.  On  one  side,  looking  up  at  the  vanished  vision 
of  his  master,  is  all  that  remains  of  a  liver-and-white 
pointer — seeming  now  to  be  some  old  dog  from  India,  for 
his  white  complexion  is  turned  yellow,  and  his  liver  is 
more  than  half  gone  ! 


pr:^=Tz 


OUR    VILLAGE.  295 

The  inn  is  reallj  a  very  quiet,  cozj,  comfortable  inn, 
though  the  hmdlord  announces  a  fact  in  larger  letters,  mc- 
thinks,  than  liis  information  warrants,  viz.,  that  he  is  "  Li- 
censed to  deal  in  Foreign  Wines  and  &'pirifs.^'  All  inn- 
keepers, I  trust,  are  so  licensed;  there  is  no  occasion  to 
make  so  brazen  a  brag  of  this  sinecure  permit. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

I  had  written  thus  far,  when  the  tarnished  gold  letters 
of  the  Green  Man  seemed  to  be  suddenly  re-gilt ;  and  on 
looking  upwards,  I  perceived  that  a  sort  of  sky-light  had 
been  opened  in  the  clouds,  giving  entrance  to  a  bright  gleam 
of  sunshine,  which  glowed  with  remarkable  effect  on  a  yel- 
low post-chaise  in  the  stable-yard,  and  brought  the  ducks 
out  beautifully  white  from  the  black  horse-pond.  Tempted 
by  the  appearance  of  the  weather,  I  put  down  my  pen,  and 
strolled  out  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  dinner  to  inhale 
that  air,  without  Avhich,  like  the  chameleon,  I  cannot  feed. 
On  my  return,  I  found,  with  some  surprise,  that  my  papers 
were  a  good  deal  discomposed ;  but,  before  I  had  time  for 
much  wonder,  my  landlady  entered  with  one  of  her  most 
obliging  curtesys,  and  observed  that  she  had  seen  me  writ- 
ing in  the  morning,  and  it  had  occurred  to  her  by  chance, 
that  I  might  by  jDossibility  have  been  writing  a  description 
of  the  village.  I  told  her  that  I  had  actually  been  engaged 
on  tliat  very  subject.  "If  that  is  the  case,  of  course,  sir, 
you  would  begin,  no  doubt,  about  the  Green  ]Man,  being  so 
close  by ;  and  I  dare  say,  you  would  say  something  about 
the  sign,  and  the  Green  Man  with  his  top  boots,  and  his  gun, 
and  his  Indian  liver-and-white  pointer,  though  his  white  to 
be  sure  is  turned  yellow,  and  his  liver  is  moi*e  than  half 
gone."  "  You  are  perfectly  right,  Mrs.  Ledger,"  I  re- 
plied, "and  in  one  part  of  the  description,  I  think  I  have 
used  almost  your  OAvn  very  words."     "  Well  that  is  curious, 


296  OUR   VILLAGE. 

sir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  L.,  and  physicallj,  not  arithmetically, 
casting  up  all  her  hands  and  eyes.  ' '  Moreover,  "what  I 
mean  to  say,  is  this ;  and  I  only  say  that  to  save  trouble. 
There 's  a  young  man  lodges  at  the  Green  Grocer's  over  the 
Avay,  who  has  writ  an  account  of  the  village  already  to  your 
hand.  The  people  about  the  place  call  him  the  Poet,  but, 
anyhow,  he  studies  a  good  deal,  and  writes  beautiful ;  and, 
as  I  said  before,  has  made  the  whole  village  out  of  his  own 
head.  Now,  it  might  save  trouble,  sir,  if  you  was  to  write 
it  out,  and  I  am  sure  I  have  a  copy,  that,  as  far  as  the  loan 
goes,  is  at  your  service,  sir."  My  curiosity  induced  me  to 
take  the  offer ;  and  as  the  poem  really  forestalled  what  I 
had  to  say  of  the  Hamlet,  I  took  my  landlady's  advice  and 
transcribed  it — and  here  it  is  : 

OUR   VILLAGE.— BY   A  YILLAGER. 

Our  village,  that 's  to  say  not  Miss  Mitford's  village,  but 

our  village  of  Bullock  Smithy, 
Is  come  into  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  tlii-ee  oak  pollards,  two 

elders,  and  a  withy ; 
And  in  the  middle,  there  's  a  green  of  about  not  exceeding 

an  acre  and  a  half; 
It's  common  to  all,  and  fed  off  by  nineteen  coavs,  six  ponies, 

three  horses,  five  asses,  two  foals,  seven  pigs,  and  a  calf! 
Besides  a  pond  in  the  middle,  as  is  held  by  a  similar  sort  of 

common  law  lease. 
And  contains  twenty  ducks,  six  drakes,  three  ganders,  two 

dead  dogs,  four  drowned  kittens,  and  twelve  geese. 
Of  course  the  green's  crept  very  close,  and  does  famous  for 

bowling  when  the  little  village-boys  play  at  cricket ; 
Only  some  horse,  or  pig,  or  cow,  or  great  jackass,  is  sure 

to  come  and  stand  right  before  the  wicket. 


OUR   VILLAGE. 


29T 


There's  fiftj-five  private  houses,  let  alone  barns  and  workshops, 

and  pig-styes,  and  poultrj-huts,  and  such  like  sheds ; 
AVith  plenty  of  public  houses — two  Foxes,  one  Green  Man, 
three  Bunch  of  Grapes,  oneCroAvn,  and  six  King'sHeads. 
The  Green  Man  is  reckoned  the  best,  as  the  only  one  that 

for  love  or  money  can  raise 
A  postilion,  a  blue  jacket,  two  deplorable  lame  Avhitc  horses, 

and  a  ramshackled  "  neat  post-chaise." 
There  's  one  parish-church  for  all  the  people,  whatsoever 

may  be  their  ranks  in  life  or  their  degrees, 
Except  one  very  damp,   small,   dark,   freezmg-cold,    little 

Methodist  chapel  of  Ease ; 
And  close  by  the  church-yard,  there's  a  stone-mason's  yard, 

that  when  the  time  is  seasonable    *' 
Will   furnish   with  afflictions   sore   and   marble  urns    and 

cherubims  very  low  and  reasonable. 
There  's  a  cage,  comfortable  enough ;  I  've  been  in  it  with 

Old  Jack  Jeffrey  and  Tom  Pike ; 
For  the  Green  Man  next  door  will  send  you  in  ale,  gin,  or 

any  thing  else  you  like. 
I  can't  speak  of  the  stocks,  as  nothing  remains  of  them  but 

the  upright  post ; 
But  the  pound  is  kept  in  repairs  for  the  sake  of  Cob's  horse, 

as  is  always  there  almost. 
There 's  a  smithy  of  course,  where  that  queer  sort  of  a  chap 

in  his  way.  Old  Joe  Bradley, 
Perpetually  hammers   and  stammers,  for  he  stutters  and 

shoes  horses  very  badly. 
There  's  a  shop  of  all  sorts,  that  sells  every  thing,  kept  by 

the  widow  of  Mr.  Task ; 
But  when  you  go  there,  it 's  ten  to  one  she 's  out  of  every 

thing  you  ask. 

13* 


^1 


298  OUR   VILLAGE. 

You  '11  know  lier  house  bj  the  swarm  of  boys,  like  flies. 

about  the  old  sugaiy  cask  : 
There  are  six  empty  houses,  and  not  so  well  papered  in.-ido 

as  out, 
For  bill-stickers  won't  beware,  but  sticks  notices  of  sale.i 

and  election  placards  all  about. 
That's  the  Doctor's  with  a  green  door,  where  the  garden 

pots  in  the  windows  is  seen ; 
A  weakly  monthly  rose  that  don't  blow,  and  a  dead  geranium. 

and  a  tea-plant  with  five  black  leaves  and  one  green. 
As  for   hollyhocks  at  the  cottage-doors,  and  honeysuckles 

and  jasmines,  you  may  go  and  whistle ; 
But  the  tailor's  front  garden  grow  two  cabbages,  a  dock,  a 

ha'porth  of  pennyi'oyal,  two  dandelions,  and  a  thistle. 
There  are  three  small  orchards — ]\lr.  Busby's  the  school- 
master's is  the  chief — 
With  two  pear-trees  that  don't  bear ;  one  plum  and  an  apple, 

that  every  year  is  stripped  by  a  thief. 
There's  another  small  day-school  too,  kept  by  the  respectable 

Mrs.  Gaby; 
A  select  establishment,  for  six  little  boys  and  one  l^ig.  and 

four  little  girls  and  a  baby. 
There 's  a  rectory,  with  pointed  gables   and  strange   odd 

chimneys  that  never  smokes. 
For  the  rector  don't  live  on  his  living  like  other  Christian 

sort  of  folks ; 
There 's    a  barber's,    once  a-week  well   filled  with  rough 

black-bearded,  shock-headed  churls. 
And  a  window  with  two  feminine  men's  heads,   and  two 

masculine  ladies  in  false  curls ; 
There 's  a  butcher's,  and  a  carpenter's,  and  a  plumber's,  and 

a  small  green-grocer's,  and  a  baker, 


A   VALENTINE.  299 

Hut  lie  won't  bake  on  a  Sunday,  and  there 's  a  sexton  that 's 

a  coal-merchant  besides,  and  an  undertaker ; 
And  a  toy-shop,  but  not  a  whole  one,  for  a  village  can't 

compare  with  the  London  shops ; 
One  window  sells  drums,  dolls,  kites,  carts,  batts,   Clout's 

balls,  and  the  other  sells  malt  and  hops. 
And  ]\Irs.   Brown,    in  domestic   economy  not  to  be  a  bit 

behind  her  betters, 
Lets  her  house  to  a  milliner,  a  watchmaker,  a  rat-catcher,  a 

cobler,  lives  in  it  herself,  and  it's  the  post  oflBce  for  letters. 
Novr  I  've  gone  through  all  the  village — ay,  from  end  to  end, 

save  and  except  one  more  house. 
But  I  liave  n't  come  to  that^and  I  hope  I  never  shall — and 

that 's  the  Village  Poor-House ! 


A  VALENTINE. 

THE  WEATHER.     To  P.  Murphy,  Esq.,  M.N.S. 
These,  properly  speaking,  being  esteemed  the  three  arms  of  Meteoric  action. 

Dear  Murphy,  to  improve  her  charms, 

Your  servant  humbly  begs ; 
She  thanks  you  for  her  leash  of  arms. 

But  wants  a  brace  of  legs. 

Moreover,  as  you  promise  folks, 

On  certain  days  a  drizzle ; 
She  thinks,  in  case  she  cannot  rain, 

She  should  have  means  to  mizzle. 

Some  lightning  too  may  just  fall  due, 

When  woods  begin  to  moult ; 
And  if  she  cannot  "fork  it  out," 

She  '11  wish  to  make  a  bolt ! 


300  '^^   FANNY. 

TO   FANNY. 

"  Gay  being,  born  to  flutter  !"'— Sale's  Glek. 

Is  this  your  faith,  then,  Fanny  ? 

What,  to  chat  with  every  Dun ! 
I  'm  the  one,  then,  but  of  many, 

Not  of  many,  but  the  One ! 

Last  night  you  smiled  on  all,  Ma  am, 
That  appeared  in  scarlet  dress  ; 

And  your  Regimental  Ball,  Ma'am, 
Looked  a  little  like  a  Mess. 

I  thought  that  of  the  Sogers 

(As  the  Scotch  say)  one  might  do, 

And  that  I,  slight  Ensign  Rogers, 
Was  the  chosen  man  and  true. 

But  'Sblood  !  your  eye  was  busy 
With  that  ragamuffin  mob ; — 

Colonel  Buddcll — Colonel  Dizzy — 
And  Lieutenant-Colonel  Cobb. 

General  Joblin,  General  Jodkin, 
Colonels — Kelly,  Felly,  with 

Majors — Sturgeon,  Truffle,  Bodkin, 
And  the  Quarter-master  Smith. 

Major  Powderum — Major  Dowdrum— 
Major  Chowdrum — Major  Bye — ■ 

Captain  Tawney — Captain  Fawney, 
Captain  Any-one — but  I ! 


TO   FAXNY. 

Deuce  take  it !  when  the  regiment 
You  so  praised,  I  only  thought 

That  you  loved  it  in  abridgment, 
But  I  no^Y  am  better  taught  I 

I  went,  as  loving  man  goes. 
To  admire  thee  in  quadrilles ; 

But  Fan,  you  dance  fandangoes 
With  just  any  fop  that  m\h  1 

I  went  with  notes  before  us, 
On  the  lay  of  Love  to  touch  ; 

But  with  all  the  Corps  in  chorus, 
Oh  !  it  is  indeed  too  much  ! 

You  once — ere  you  contracted 
For  the  Army— seemed  my  own ; 

But  now  you  laugh  with  all  the  Staff, 
And  I  may  sigh  alone  ! — 

I  know  not  how  it  chances, 
When  my  passion  ever  dares, 
.    But  the  warmer  my  advances. 
Then  the  cooler  are  your  airs. 

I  am,  I  dont  conceal  it. 

But  I  am  a  little  hurt : 
You  're  a  Fan,  and  I  must  feel  it, 

Fit  for  nothing  but  a  Flirt ! 

I  dreamt  thy  smiles  of  beauty 
On  myself  alone  did  fall ; 

But  alas!  "CosiFanTutti!" 
It  is  thus.  Fan,  thus  with  all ! 


301 


302  THE   BOY   AT   THE   J^ORE. 

You  have  taken  quite  a  mob  in 
Of  new  military  flames  ; — 

They  would  make  a  fine  Round  Robin 
If  I  gave  you  all  their  names  ! 


THE  BOY  AT  THE   NORE. 

"Alone  I  did  it! — Boy!" — Coeiolaxcs. 

I  SAT,  little  Boy  at  the  Nore, 

Do  you  come  from  the  small  Isle  of  Man  ? 
Why,  your  history  a  mystery  must  be — 

Come  tell  us  as  much  as  you  can, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

You  live  it  seems  wholly  on  water. 

Which  your  Gambier  calls  living  in  clover ; — 
But  how  comes  it,  if  that  is  the  case, 

You  're  eternally  half  seas  over — 

Little  boy  at  the  Nore  ? 

While  you  ride — while  you  dance — while  you  float- 
Never  mind  your  imperfect  orthography  ; — 

But  give  us  as  well  as  you  can, 
Your  watery  auto-biography, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore ! 

LITTLE  BOY  AT  THE  XORE  LOQUITUR. 

I  'm  the  tight  little  Boy  at  the  Nore, 

In  a  sort  of  sea  negus  I  dwells  ; 
Half  and  half  'twixt  salt-water  and  Port, 

I  'm  reckoned  the  first  of  the  swells — 

I  'm  the  Boy  at  the  Nore ! 


THE    BOY    AT   THE    XORE.  303 

I  lives  with  my  toes  to  tlie  flounders. 

And  watches  through  long  days  and  nights  ; 
Yet,  cruelly  eager,  men  look — 

To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  my  lights — 
I'm  the  Boy  at  the  Xore. 

I  never  gets  cold  in  the  head, 

So  my  life  on  salt  water  is  sweet — 
I  think  I  owes  much  of  my  health, 

To  being  well  used  to  wet  feet — 

As  the  Boy  at  the  Nore. 

There 's  one  thing,  I  "m  never  in  debt : 

Nay  I — I  liquidates  more  than  I  ouffhier  ;* 

So  the  man  to  beat  Cits  as  goes  by. 
In  keeping  the  head  above  water, 

Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore. 

I  've  seen  a  good  deal  of  distress 

Lots  of  Breakers  in  Ocean's  Gazette ; 
They  should  do  as  I  do — rise  o'er  all ; 

Ay,  a  good  floating  capital  get, 

Like  the  Boy  at  the  Nore ! 

I  'm  a'ter  the  sailor's  own  heart, 

And  cheers  him,  in  deep  water  rolling  ; 

And  the  friend  of  all  friends  to  Jack  Junk,  . 
Ben  Backstay,  Tom  Pipes,  and  Tom  Bowling, 
Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

Could  I  e'er  but  grow  up,  I  'd  be  off 

For  a  week  to  make  love  to  my  wheedles ; 
If  the  tight  little  Boy  at  the  Nore 

Could  but  catch  a  nice  girl  at  the  Needles, 
AYe  'd  have  tn-o  at  the  Nore ! 
*  A  word  caught  from  some  American  Trader  in  pa.ssing. 


304  SHOOTING   PAIXS. 

They  thinks  little  of  sizes  on  water, 
On  big  waves  the  tinj  one  skulks — 

Wliile  the  river  has  ]Men  of  War  on  it — 

Yes — the  Thames  is  oppressed  with  Great  Hulks, 
And  the  Boy's  at  the  Nore  ! 

But  I '  ve  done — for  the  water  is  heaving 
Round  my  body,  as  though  it  would  sink  it ! 

And  I  *ve  been  so  long  pitching  and  tossing, 
That  sea-sick — ^you  "d  hardly  now  think  it — 
Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore ! 


SHOOTIXO  PAIXS. 

"The  charge  is  prepared." — MACHEAxn. 

If  I  shoot  any  more  I  "11  be  shot, 

For  ill-luck  seems  determined  to  star  me, 

I  have  marched  the  whole  day 

"With  a  gun — for  no  pay — 
Zounds,  I  'd  better  have  been  in  the  army  1 

"Wliat  matters  Sii'  Christopher's  leave  ; 
To  his  manor  I  "m  sorry  I  came  yet ! 

With  confidence  fraught, 

My  two  pointers  I  brought, 
But  we  are  not  a  point  towards  game  yet ! 

And  that  gamekeeper  too,  with  advice  ! 
Of  my  course  he  has  been  a  nice  chalker, 

Not  far,  were  his  words, 

I  could  go  without  birds  : 
If  my  legs  could  cry  out,  they'd  cry  "Walker!" 


SHOOTING   PAINS.  805 

Kot  Hawker  could  find  out  a  flaw — 

My  appointments  are  modern  and  INIantony, 

And  I  've  brought  my  own  man, 

To  mark  down  all  he  can, 
But  I  can't  find  a  mark  for  my  Antony ! 

The  partridges — where  can  they  lie  ? 
I  have  promised  a  leash  to  Miss  Jervas, 

As  the  least  I  could  do  ; 

But  without  even  two 
To  brace  me — I  'm  getting  quite  nervous  ! 

To  the  pheasants — how  well  they  're  preserved  ! 
My  sport 's  not  a  jot  more  beholden. 

As  the  birds  are  so  shy, 

For  my  friends  I  must  buy, 
And  so  send  "  silver  pheasants  and  golden." 

I  have  tried  ev'ry  form  for  a  hare. 

Every  patch,  every  furze,  that  could  shroud  her, 

With  toil  unrelaxed, 

Till  my  patience  is  taxed. 
But  I  cannot  be  taxed  for  hare-powder, 

I  've  been  roaming  for  hours  in  three  flata 
In  the  hope  of  a  snipe  for  a  snap  at ; 

But  still  vainly  I  court 

The  percussioning  sport, 
I  find  nothing  for  "  setting  my  cap  at !" 

A  woodcock — this  month  is  the  time — 
Right  and  left  I  've  made  ready  my  lock  for, 

With  well-loaded  double, 

But  spite  of  my  trouble. 
Neither  barrel  can  I  find  a  cock  for  I 


306  SHOOTING    PAINS. 

A  rabbit  I  sbould  not  despise, 

But  tbej  lurk  in  their  burrows  so  lowly, 

This  day 's  the  eleventh, 

It  is  not  the  seventh, 
But  they  seem  to  be  keeping  it  hole-y. 

For  a  mallard  I  've  waded  the  marsh, 

And  haunted  each  pool,  and  each  lake — oh  ! 

Mine  is  not  the  luck. 

To  obtain  thee,  0  Duck, 
Or  to  doom  thee,  0  Drake,  like  a  Draco  ! 

For  a  field-fare  I  've  fared  far  a-field, 
Large  or  small  I  am  never  to  sack  bird, 

Not  a  thrush  is  so  kind 

As  to  fly,  and  I  find 
I  may  whistle  myself  for  a  black-bird ! 

I  am  angry,  I  'm  hungry,  I  'm  dry, 
Disappointed,  and  sullen,  and  goaded. 

And  so  weary  an  elf, 

I  am  sick  of  myself. 
And  with  Number  One  seem  overloaded. 

As  well  one  might  beat  round  St.  Paul's, 
And  look  out  for  a  cock  or  a  hen  there ; 

I  have  searched  round  and  round 

All  the  Baronet's  ground, 
But  Sir  Christopher  has  n't  a  wren  there ! 

Joyce  may  talk  of  his  excellent  caps. 
But  for  nightcaps  they  set  me  desiring. 

And  it 's  really  too  bad. 

Not  a  shot  I  have  had 
With  Hall's  Powder,  renowned  for  "  quick  firing." 


PAIRED   XOT  MATCHED. 

If  this  is  what  people  call  sport, 
Oh !  of  sporting  I  can't  have  a  high  sense, 
And  there  still  remains  one 
More  mischance  on  my  gun — 
''  Fined  for  shooting  without  any  license." 


307 


PAIRED  KOT  iLlTCHED. 

Op  wedded  bliss 

Bards  sing  amiss, 
I  cannot  make  a  song  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small, 

My  wife  is  tall. 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it ; 

When  we  debate 

It  is  my  fate 
To  always  have  the  wrong  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small 

And  she  is  tall, 
And  that  "s  the  short  and  loner  of  it ! 

And  when  I  speak 

'Mj  voice  is  weak, 
But  hers — she  makes  a  gong  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small, 

And  she  is  tall. 
And  that  "s  the  short  and  long  of  it; 

She  has.  in  brief, 

Command  in  Chief, 
And  I  'm  but  Aide-de-camp  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small, 

And  she  is  tall. 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it ! 


308  PAIRED    xTCr    MATCHED. 

She  gives  to  me 

The  weakest  tea, 
And  takes  the  whole  Souchong  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small, 

And  she  is  tall, 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it; 

She  '11  sometimes  grip 

My  buggy  whip, 
And  make  me  feel  the  thong  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small, 

And  she  is  tall. 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it ! 

Against  my  life 

She  '11  take  a  knife. 
Or  fork,  and  dart  the  prong  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small, 

And  she  is  tall. 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it ! 

I  sometimes  think 

I  '11  take  to  drink. 
And  hector  when  I  'm  strong  of  it 

For  I  am  small. 

And  she  is  tall. 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it ! 

0,  if  the  bell 

Would  ring  her  knell, 
I  'd  make  a  gay  ding-dong  of  it ; 

For  I  am  small. 

And  she  is  tall, 
And  that 's  the  short  and  long  of  it ! 


THE   COMPASS,  WITH  VARIATIONS.  309 

THE  COMPASS,  WITH  VARIATIONS. 

'The  Needles  have  sometimes  been  fatal  to  Mariners." — PicmjBE  or  Isle  of  'WiGnT. 

OxE  close  of  day — 't-was  in  the  bay 

Of  Naples,  bay  of  glory ! 

While  light  was  hanging  cro-wns  of  gold 

On  mountains  high  and  hoary, 

A  gallant  bark  got  under  way. 

And  with  her  sails  my  story. 

For  Leghorn  she  was  bound  direct. 
With  wine  and  oil  for  cargo, 
Her  crew  of  men  some  nine  or  ten, 
The  captain's  name  was  lago ; 
A  good  and  gallant  bark  she  was, 
La  Doima  (called)  del  Lago. 

Bronzed  mariners  were  her's  to  view, 
With  brown  cheeks,  clear  or  muddy, 
Dark,  shining  eyes,  and  coal-black  hair. 
Meet  heads  for  painter's  study ; 
But  'midst  their  tan  there  stood  one  man, 
"Wliose  cheek  was  fair  and  ruddy ; 

His  brow  was  high,  a  loftier  brow 
Ne'er  shone  in  song  or  sonnet. 
His  hair  a  little  scant,  and  when 
He  doffed  his  cap  or  bonnet. 
One  saw  that  Grey  had  gone  beyond 
A  premiership  upon  it ! 

His  eye — a  passenger  was  he. 
The  cabin  he  had  hired  it — 


310  THE    COMPASS,  WITH   YARIATIONS.  ^ 

His  eye  was  grey,  and  when  he  looked 
Around,  the  prospect  fired  it — 
A  fine  poetic  light,  as  if 
The  Apple-Nine  inspked  it. 

His  frame  was  stout,  in  height  about  < 
Six  feet — well  made  and  portly ; 
Of  dress  and  manner  just  to  give 
A  sketch,  but  very  shortly, 
His  order  seemed  a  composite 
Of  rustic  with  the  courtly. 

He  ate  and  quafied,  and  joked  and  laughed. 
And  chatted  with  the  seamen,     , 
And  often  tasked  their  skill  and  asked 
"  What  weather  is  *t  to  be,  man?" 
No  demonstration  there  appeared 
That  he  was  any  demon. 

No  sort  of  sign  there  was  that  he 
Could  raise  a  stormy  rumpus, 
Like  Prospero  make  breezes  blow, 
And  rocks  and  billows  thump  us — 
But  little  we  supposed  ^vhat  he 
Could  with  the  needle  compass ! 

Soon  came  a  storm — the  sea  at  first 
Seemed  lying  almost  fallow — 
"When  lo  !  full  crash,  with  billowy  dash, 
From  clouds  of  black  and  yellow, 
Came  such  a  gale,  as  blows  but  once 
A  cent"ry,  like  the  aloe ! 

Our  stomachs  we  had  just  prepared 
To  vest  a  small  amount  in : 


THE    COMPASS,  WITH   VARIATIONS.  311 

When,  gush  !  a  flood  of  brine  came  down 
The  skylight — quite  a  fountain, 
And  right  on  end  the  table  reared. 
Just  like  the  Table  Mountain. 

Down  rushed  the  soup,  down  gushed  the  wine, 

Each  roll,  its  role  repeating, 

Rolled  down — the  round  of  beef  declared 

For  parting — not  for  meating  ! 

Off  flew  the  fowls,  and  all  the  game 

Was  "  too  far  gone  for  eating  !'' 

Down  knife  and  foi'k — down  went  the  pork, 

The  lamb  too  broke  its  tether ; 

Down  mustard  went — each  condiment — 

Salt — pepjjer — all  together  ! 

Down  every  thing,  like  craft  that  seek 

The  Downs  in  stormy  weather. 

Down  plunged  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
Her  timbers  seemed  to  sever ; 
Down,  down,  a  dreary  derry  down, 
Such  lurch  she  had  gone  never ; 
She  almost  seemed  about  to  take 
A  bed  of  down  forever  ! 

Down  dropped  the  captain's  nether  jaw, 

Thus  robbed  of  all  its  uses, 

He  thought  he  saw  the  Evil  One 

Beside  Vesuvian  sluices. 

Playing  at  dice  for  soul  and  ship, 

And  throwing  IS  ink  and  Deuces. 

Down  fell  the  steward  on  his  face. 
To  all  the  Saints  commending ; 


312  THE    COMPASS,  WITH   VARIATIONS. 

And  candles  to  the  Virgin  vowed, 
As  save-alls  'gainst  his  ending. 
Down  fell  the  mate,  he  thought  his  fate, 
Check-mate,  was  close  impending ! 

Down  fell  the  cook — the  cabin  boy, 
Their  beads  with  fervor  telling, 
While  alps  of  serge,  with  snowy  verge, 
Above  the  yards  came  yelling. 
Down  fell  the  crew,  and  on  then-  knees 
Shuddered  at  each  white  swelling  ! 

Down  sunk  the  sun  of  bloody  hue, 

TTis  crimson  light  a  cleaver 

To  each  red  rover  of  a  wave : 

To  eye  of  fancy-weaver, 

Neptune,  the  God,  seemed  tossing  in 

A  raging  scarlet  fever! 

Sore,  sore  afraid,  each  papist  prayed 

To  Saint  and  Virgin  jNIary ; 

But  one  there  was  that  stood  composed 

Amid  the  waves'  vagary ; 

As  staunch  as  rock,  a  true  game-cock 

'^Mid  chicks  of  Mother  Gary  ! 

His  ruddy  cheek  retained  its  streak, 
Ko  danger  seemed  to  shrink  him ; 
His  step  still  bold — of  mortal  mould 
The  crew  could  hardly  think  him : 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  he  seemed 
To  know,  could  never  sink  him. 

Relaxed  at  last  the  furious  gale 
Quite  out  of  breath  with  racing; 


THE    COMPASS,  WITH   VARIATIONS.  313 

The  boiling  flood  in  milder  mood, 
"With  gentler  billows  chasing ; 
From  stem  to  stern,  with  frequent  turn, 
The  Stranger  took  to  pacing. 

And  as  he  Avalked  to  self  he  talked, 

Some  ancient  ditty  thrumming, 

In  under  tone,  as  not  alone — 

l^ow  whistling,  and  now  humming — 

"  You 're  welcome,  Charlie,"  "  Cowdenknowes," 

"Kenmure,"  or  ''Campbells'  Coming." 

Down  went  the  wind,  down  went  the  wave, 

Fear  quitted  the  most  finical ; 

The  Saints,  I  wot,  were  soon  forgot. 

And  Hope  was  at  the  pinnacle : 

When  rose  on  high,  a  frightful  cry — 

"  The  Devil"  s  in  the  binnacle !" 

"  The  Saints  be  near,"  the  helmsman  cried, 

His  voice  with  quite  a  falter — 

•''  Steady 's  my  helm,  but  every  look 

The  needle  seems  to  alter  ; 

God  only  knows  where  China  lies, 

Jamaica,  or  Gibraltar!"' 

The  captain  stared  aghast  at  mate, 

The  pilot  at  th'  apprentice  ; 

Xo  fincy  of  the  German  Sea 

Of  Fiction  the  event  is  : 

But  when  they  at  the  compass  looked, 

It  seemed  non  compass  mentis. 

Now  nonh,  now  south,  now  east,  now  west, 
The  wavering  point  was  shaken, 
14 


)14  THE    COMPASS,  WITH    VARIATIONS. 

'T  was  past  the  whole  philosophy 
Of  Newton,  oi-  of  Bacon ; 
Never  by  compass,  till  that  hour 
Such  latitudes  were  taken ! 

With  fearful  speech,  each  after  each 
Took  turns  in  the  inspection  ; 
They  found  no  gun — no  iron — none 
To  vary  its  direction  ; 
It  seemed  a  new  anagnetic  case 
Of  Poles  in  Insurrection  ! 

Farewell  to  wives,  farewell  their  lives, 

And  all  their  household  riches  ; 

Oh  !  while  they  thought  of  girl  or  boy, 

And  dear  domestic  niches, 

All  down  the  side  which  holds  the  heart. 

That  needle  gave  them  stitches. 

"With  deep  amaze,  the  Stranger  gazed 
To  see  them  so  white-livered  : 
And  walked  abaft  the  binnacle, 
To  know  at  what  they  shivered ; 
But  when  he  stood  beside  the  card, 
St.  Josef!  how  it  quivered! 

No  fancy-motion,  brain-begot, 
In  eye  of  timid  dreamer — 
The  nervous  finger  of  a  sot 
Ne'er  showed  a  plainer  tremor ; 
To  every  brain  it  seemed  too  plain, 
There  stood  th'  Infernal  Schemer  I 

Mixed  brown  and  blue  each  visage  grew, 
Just  like  a  pullet's  gizzard  ; 


"  PLEASE    TO    RING    THE    BELLE."  315 

Meamvliile  the  captain's  wandering  Avit, 
From  tacking  like  an  izzard, 
Bore  down  in  this  plain  course  at  last, 
"  It 's  Michael  Scott— the  Wizard  !" 

A  smile  past  o'er  the  ruddy  face, 

"  To  see  the  poles  so  falter 

I  'm  puzzled,  friends,  as  much  as  you, 

For  with  no  fiends  I  palter ; 

Michael  I  'm  not — although  a  Scott — 

My  Christian  name  is  Walter." 

Like  oil  it  fell,  that  name,  a  spell 

On  all  the  fearful  faction ; 

The  captain's  head  (for  he  had  read) 

Confessed  the  Needle's  action, 

And  bowed  to  Him  in  whom  the  North 

Has  lodged  its  main  attraction  1 


"PLEASE  TO  RING  THE  BELLE." 

I  "11  tell  you  a  story  that 's  not  in  Tom  Moore  : — 
Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a  pretty  girl's  door : 
So  he  called  upon  Lucy — 'twas  just  ten  o'clock — 
Like  a  spruce  single  man,  with  a  smart  double  knock. 

Now  a  hand-maid,  whatever  her  fingers  be  at, 
Will  run  like  a  puss  when  she  hears  a  ra/-tat : 
So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 
Had  questioned  the  stranger  and  answered  the  door. 

The  meeting  was  bliss;  but  the  parting  was  woe: 
For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must  go ; 
So  she  kissed  him,  and  Avhispered— poor  innocent  thing — 
'■The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a  ring." 


316  THE    LAMENT   OF   TOBY. 

THE  LAMENT  OF  TOBY, 

THE    LEARNED    PIG. 

"  A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing." — Pope. 

0  HEAVY  day !  oh  day  of  woe  ! 

To  misery  a  poster, 
Why  was  I  ever  farrowed — why 

Not  spitted  for  a  roaster  ? 

In  this  world,  pigs,  as  well  as  men, 
Must  dance  to  fortune's  fiddlings, 

But  must  I  give  the  classics  up, 
For  barley-meal  and  middlings  ? 

Of  what  avail  that  I  could  spell 
And  read,  just  like  my  betters, 

If  I  must  come  to  this  at  last, 
To  litters,  not  to  letters  ? 

0,  why  are  pigs  made  scholars  of? 

It  baffles  my  discerning, 
What  griskins,  fry,  and  chitterlings, 

Can  have  to  do  with  learning. 

Alas  !  my  learning  once  drew  cash, 
But  public  fame  's  unstable, 

So  I  must  turn  a  pig  again, 
And  fatten  for  the  table. 

To  leave  my  literary  line 
My  eyes  get  red  and  leaky ; 

But  Giblett  does  n't  want  me  bhie, . 
But  red  and  white,  and  streaky. 


THE    LAMENT   OF   TOBY. 

Old  I^Iullins  used  to  cultivate 
My  learning  like  a  gaixVner ; 

But  Giblett  only  thinks  of  lard, 
And  not  of  Dr.  Lardner  ! 

He  does  not  care  aljout  my  brain 

The  value  of  two  coppers, 
AH  that  he  thinks  about  my  head 

Is,  how  I  "m  off  for  choppers. 

Of  all  my  literary  kin 
A  farewell  must  be  taken, 

Good-bye  to  the  poetic  Hogg  I 
The  philosophic  Bacon  ! 

Day  after  day  my  lessons  fade, 
ISIy  intellect  gets  muddy  ; 

A  trough  I  have,  and  not  a  desk, 
A  sty — and  not  a  study ! 

Another  little  month,  and  then 
Mj  progress  ends,  like  Bunyan's ; 

The  seven  sages  that  I  loved 
Will  be  chopped  up  with  onions ! 

Then  over  head  and  ears  in  brine 
They  "11  souse  me,  like  a  salmon, 

llj  mathematics  turned  to  brawn, 
]My  logic  into  gammon. 

My  Hebrew  will  all  retrograde, 
Now  I  'm  put  up  to  fatten ; 

My  Greek,  it  will  all  go  to  grease ; 
The  Dogs  will  have  my  Latin ! 


317 


318  THE   LAMENT   OF   TOBY. 

Farewell  to  Oxford  ! — and  to  Bliss ! 

To  Milman,  Crowe,  and  Glossop — 
I  now  must  be  content  with  chats, 

Instead  of  learned  gossip ! 

Farewell  to  '•  Town !"'  farewell  to  "  Gown !" 
I  've  quite  outgrown  the  latter — 

Instead  of  Trencher-cap  my  head 
Will  soon  be  in  a  platter  ! 

O  why  did  I  at  Brazen-Nose 

Rout  up  the  roots  of  knowledge  ? 

A  butcher  that  can"t  read  will  kill 
A  pig  that 's  been  to  college  ! 

For  sorrow  I  could  stick  myself, 
But  conscience  is  a  dasher; 

A  thing  that  would  be  rash  in  man, 
In  me  would  be  a  rasher ! 

One  thing  I  ask — when  I  am  dead 
And  past  the  Stygian  ditches — 

And  that  is,  let  my  schoolmaster 
Have  one  of  my  two  flitches : 

'T  was  he  who  taught  my  letters  so 
I  ne'er  mistook  or  missed  'em; 

Simply  by  ringing  at  the  nose, 
According  to  Belts  system. 


MY   SON   A^■]J    HEIR.  319 


MY   SON    AXD   HEIR. 

My  mother  bids  me  bind  my  heir, 

But  not  the  trade  vrhere  I  should  bind ; 

To  place  a  boy — the  how  and  where — 
It  is  the  plague  of  parent-kind  ! 

She  does  not  hint  the  slightest  plan, 
Nor  what  indentures  to  indorse  ; 

Whether  to  bind  him  to  a  man — 
Or,  like  Mazeppa,  to  a  horse. 

What  line  to  choose  of  likely  rise, 
To  something  in  the  Stocks  at  last — • 

"  Fast  bind,  fast  find."  the  proverb  cries 
I  find  I  cannot  bind  so  fast ! 

A  Statesman  James  can  never  be  ; 

A  Tailor  ? — there  I  only  learn 
His  chief  concern  is  cloth,  and  he 

Is  always  cutting  his  concern. 

A  Seedsman  ? — I  "d  not  have  him  so  ; 

A  Grocer's  plum  might  disappoint ; 
A  Butcher  ?— no,  not  that — although 

I  hear  '•  the  times  are  out  of  joint  I" 

Too  many  of  all  trades  there  be, 

Like  Pedlars,  each  has  such  a  pack ; 

A  merchant  selling  coals  ? — we  see 
The  buyer  send  to  cellar  back. 


320  MY   SON   AND    HEIR.      . 

A  Hardware  dealer  ? — that  might  please, 
But  if  his  trade's  foundation  leans 

On  spikes  and  nails,  he  won't  have  ease 
When  he  retires  upon  his  means. 

'A  Soldier  ? — there  he  has  not  nerves, 
A  Sailor  seldom  lays  up  pelf : 

A  Baker  ? — no,  a  leaker  serves 
His  customer  before  himself. 

Dresser  of  hair  ?— that 's  not  the  sort ; 

A  joiner  jars  with  his  desire — 
A  Churchman  ? — James  is  very  short, 

And  cannot  to  a  church  aspire. 

A  Lawyer  ? — that 's  a  hardish  term  ! 

A  Publisher  might  give  him  ease. 
If  he  could  into  Longman's  firm, 

Just  plunge  at  once  "  in  medias  Reea." 

A  shop  for  pot,  and  pan,  and  cup, 
Such  brittle  Stock  I  can't  advise ; 

A  Builder  running  houses  up, 

Their  gains  are  stories — may  be  lies  I 

A  Coppersmith  I  can't  endure — 
Nor  petty  Usher  A,  B,  C-ing ; 

A  Publican  no  father  sure, 

Would  be  the  author  of  his  being ! 

A  Paper-maker  ? — come  he  must 
To  rags  before  he  sells  a  sheet — 

A  Miller  ?— all  his  toil  is  just 
To  make  a  meal — he  does  not  eat. 


MY   SON  AND   HEIR.  321 

A  Currier  ? — that  by  favor  goes — 

A  Chandler  gives  me  great  misgiving — 

An  Undertaker  ? — one  of  those 

That  do  not  hope  to  get  their  living ! 

Three  Golden  Balls  ? — I  like  them  not  j 

An  Auctioneer  I  never  did — 
The  victim  of  a  slavish  lot, 

Obliged  to  do  as  he  is  bid ! 

A  Broker  -R-atching  fall  and  rise 

Of  Stock  ? — I  'd  rather  deal  in  stone — 

A  Printer  ? — there  his  toils  comprise 
Another's  work  beside  his  own. 

A  Cooper  ? — neither  I  nor  Jem 

Have  any  taste  or  turn  for  that — 
A  Fish  retailer  ? — but  with  him 

One  part  of  trade  is  always  flat. 

A  Painter  ? — long  he  would  not  live — 

An  Artist 's  a  precarious  craft — 
In  trade  Apothecaries  give, 

But  very  seldom  take,  a  draught. 

A  Glazier  ? — what  if  he  should  smash  ! 

A  Crispin  he  shall  not  be  made — 
A  Grazier  may  be  losing  cash, 

Although  he  drives  '-a  roaring  trade." 

Well,  something  must  be  done  !  to  look 

On  all  my  little  works  around — 
James  is  too  big  a  boy,  like  book, 

To  leave  upon  the  shelf  unbound. 


322  THE    FOX    AXD    THE    HEN. 

But  "what  to  do  ? — my  temples  ache 

From  evening's  dew  till  morning's  pearl, 

"WTiat  course  to  take  my  boy  to  make — 
Oh  could  I  make  my  boy — a  girl ! 


THE  FOX  AXD  THE  HEN. 


Speaking  witliin  compass,  as  to  fabulousness  I  prefer  Southcote  to  Korthcat^ 

PiGBOGROMITUS. 

OxE  day,  or  night,  no  matter  where  or  when, 
Sly  Reynard,  like  a  foot-pad,  laid  his  pad 
Right  on  the  body  of  a  speckled  Hen, 
Determined  upon  taking  all  she  had ; 
And  like  a  very  bibber  at  his  bottle, 
Began  to  di'aw  the  claret  from  her  throttle  : 
Of  course  it  put  her  in  a  pretty  pucker. 
And  with  a  scream  as  high 
As  she  could  cry. 
She  called  for  help — she  had  enough  of  sucker. 

Dame  Partlet's  scream 
"Waked,  luckily,  the  house-dog  from  his  dream, 

And.  vrith  a  savage  growl 

In  answer  to  the  fowl, 
He  bounded  forth  against  the  prowling  sinner, 
And,  uninvited,  came  to  the  Fox  Dinner. 

Sly  Reynard,  heedful  of  the  coming  doom. 

Thought,  self-deceived, 

He  should  not  be  perceived, 
HidinfT  his  brush  within  a  neighboring  bi'oom  ; 
But  quite  unconscious  of  a  Poacher's  snare. 


THE    FOX    AND   THE   HEN.  323 

And  caught  in  copper  noose, 

And  looking  like  a  goose, 
Found  that  his  fate  had  "  hung  upon  a  hare  f 
His  ti'icks  and  turns  ■s\-ere  rendered  of  no  use  to  him, 
And,  -worst  of  all,  he  saw  old  surly  Tray 

Coming  to  play 

Tray-Deuce  with  him. 

Tray,  an  old  jMastiff  bred  at  Dunstable, 
Under  his  Master,  a  most  special  constable, 
Instead  of  killing  Reynard  in  a  fury, 
Seized  him  for  legal  trial  by  a  Jury ; 
But  Juries — iEsop  was  a  sheriff  then — 
Consisted  of  twelve  Brutes  and  not  of  Men. 

But  first  the  Elephant  sat  on  the  body — 

I  mean  the  Hen — and  proved  that  she  was  dea^ 

To  the  veriest  fool's  head 

Of  the  Booby  and  the  Noddy. 

Acordingly,  the  Stork  brought  in  a  bill 

Quite  true  enough  to  kill ; 
And  then  the  Owl  was  called — for,  mark, 
The  Owl  can  witness  m  the  dark. 
To  make  the  evidence  more  plain. 
The  Lynx  connected  all  the  chain. 
In  short  there  was  no  quirk  or  quibble 
At  which  a  legal  Rat  could  nibble ; 
The  Culprit  was  as  far  beyond  hope's  bounds 
As  if  the  Jury  had  been  j)acked—o?  hounds, 
Reynard,  however,  at  the  utmost  nick, 
Is  seldom  quite  devoid  of  shift  and  trick ; 


324  THE    FOX    AND    THE    HEN. 

Accordingly  our  cunning  Fox, 
Through  certain  influence,  obscurely  channeled. 
A  fi'iendly  Camel  got  into  the  box. 
"\Mien  "gainst  his  life  the  Jury  -svas  impaneled. 

Now,  in  the  Silly  Isles  such  is  the  law, 

K  Jurors  should  -withdraw, 
They  are  to  have  no  eating  and  no  drinking 
Till  all  are  starved  into  one  way  of  thinking. 

Thus  Reynard's  Jurors,  who  could  not  agree, 
Were  locked  up  strictly,  without  bit  or  mummock. 
Till  every  Beast  that  only  had  one  stomach, 
Bent  to  the  Camel,  who  was  blest  with  three. 
To  do  them  justice,  they  debated 
From  four  till  ten,  while  dinner  waited, 
When  thirst  and  hunger  got  the  upper, 
And  each  inclined  to  mercy,  and  hot  supper  : 
'■  Not  guilty"  was  the  word,  and  Master  Fox 
Was  freed  to  murder  other  hens  and  cocks. 

MOEAL. 

What  moral  gi'eets  us  by  this  tale's  assistance 
But  that  the  Solon  is  a  sorry  Solon, 

Who  makes  the  full  stop  of  a  Man's  existence 
Depend  upon  a  Colon  ? 


THE   COMET.  325 

THE  CO^^IET. 

AX  ASTROXOinCAL  AXECDOTE. 
'  I  cannot  fill  up  a  blank  better  tban  vrith  a  short  history  of  this  self-same  /S^iarling." 

STEEh-E's  SEXTIilKXTAL  JOUB^*Ey. 

Amoxgst  professors  of  astronomy, 
Adepts  in  the  celestial  economy, 

The  name  of  H* *****!  's  very  often  cited, 
And  justly  so,  for  he  is  hand  and  glove 
With  every  bright  intelligence  above ; 
Indeed,  it  -^vas  his  custom  so  to  stop, 
Watching  the  stars  upon  the  house's  top, 

That  once  upon  a  time  he  got  be-knighted. 

In  his  observatory  thus  coquetting 

With  Venus — or  vrith  Juno  gone  astray, 
All  sublunary  matters  quite  forgetting 
In  his  flirtations  with  the  winking  stars, 
Acting  the  spy — it  might  be  upon  Mars — 

A  new  Andre  ; 
Or,  like  a  Tom  of  Coventry,  sly  peeping 
At  Dian  sleeping ; 
Or  ogling  thro'  his  glass 
Some  heavenly  lass 
Tripping  with  pails  along  the  ]\Iilky  Way ; 
Or  looking  at  that  Wain  of  Charles  the  Martyr's : — 

Thus  he  was  sitting,  watchman  of  the  sky, 
When  lo  !  a  something  with  a  tail  of  flame 

Made  him  exclaim, 
^'My  stars  !"' — he  always  puts  that  stress  on  my — 
"  My  stars  and  garters  !" 


326  THE    COMET. 

"  A  comet,  sure  as  I  'm  alive ! 
A  noble  one  as  I  should  wish  to  view ; 
It  can't  be  Hallej's  though,  that  is  not  due 

Till  eighteen  thirtj-five. 
Magnificent  1 — how  fine  his  fiery  trail  ! 
Zounds  !   'tis  a  pity,  though,  he  comes  unsought — 
Unasked — unreckoned — iu  no  human  thought — 

He  ought — he  ought — he  ought 

To  have  been  caught 
With  scientific  salt  upon  his  tail ! 

"  I  looked  no  more  for  it,  I  do  declare, 
Than  the  Great  Bear  ! 

As  sure  as  Tjcho-Brahe  is  dead, 
It  really  entered  in  my  head 
No  more  than  Berenice's  Hair  !" 
Thus  musing,  Heaven's  Grand  Inquisitor 
Sat  gazing  on  the  unin\-ited  "sasitor 
Till  John,  the  ser\ang-man,  came  to  the  upper 
Regions,  with  "  Please  your  Honor,  come  to  supper." 

"  Supper  !  good  John,  to-night  I  shall  not  sup 
Except  on  that  phenomenon — look  up  !" 
"Not  sup !"  cried  John,  thinking  with  consternation 
That  supping  on  a  star  must  be  starxvLiharv^ 

Or  ev'n  to  batten 
On  Isnes  Fatui  would  never  flitten. 
His  visage  seemed  to  say — that  very  odd  is — 
But  still  his  master  the  same  tune  ran  on, 
'•  I  can't  come  down — go  to  the  parlor,  John, 
And  say  I  'm  supping  with  the  heavenly  liodies. 

"  The  heavenly  bodies  !"  echoed  John,  "  Ahem  !" 
His  mind  still  full  of  famishin";  alarms, 


THE    COMET. 


327 


"  'Zooks,  if  your  Honor  sups  with  them, 
In  lielping,  somebody  must  make  long  anus  !" 
He  thought  his  master's  stomach  was  in  danger, 
But  still  in  the  same  tone  replied  the  Knight, 

'•  Go  down,  John,  go,  I  have  no  appetite, 
Say  I  "m  engaged  with  a  celestial  stranger.  ' — 
Quoth  John,  not  much  au  fait  in  such  aflfairs, 
"Wouldn't  the  stranger  take  a  bit  down  stairs?" 
"No,"  said  the  master,  smiling,  and  no  wonder, 

At  such  a  blunder, 
"  The  stranger  is  not  quite  the  thing  you  thmk, 
He  wants  no  meat  or  di'ink. 
And  one  may  doubt  quite  reasonably  whether 

He  has  a  mouth, 
Seeing  his  head  and  tail  are  joined  together, 
Behold  him— there  he  is,  John,  in  the  South."- 

John  looked  up  with  his  portentous  eyes, 
Each  rolling  like  a  marble  in  its  socket, 
At  last  the  fiery  tad-pole  spies. 
And,  full  of  ^^auxhall  reminiscence,  cries, 
'•  A  rare  good  rocket !" 

"  A  what  ?     A  rocket,  John !     Far  from  it ! 

What  you  behold,  John,  is  a  comet ; 
One  of  those  most  eccentric  things 

That  in  all  ages 

Have  puzzled  sages 

And  frightened  kings ; 
With  fear  of  change  that  flaming  meteor,  John, 
Perplexes  sovereigns,  throughout  its  range' 

••  Do  he?"  cried  John; 
'•  Well,  let  him  flare  on, 
/have n't  got  no  sovereigns  to  change !'' 


328  I   CANNOT  BEAR  A   GUN. 


I  CANNOT  BEAR  A  GUN. 

"Timidity  is  generally  reckoned  an  essential  attribute  of  the  fair  sex,  and  thi3  absurd 
notion  gives  rise  to  more  false  starts  than  a  race  for  the  Leger.  Hence  screams  at  mice, 
tits  at  spiders,  faces  at  toads,  jumps  at  lizards,  flights  from  daddy  longlegs,  panics  at 
wasps,  sawce  qui  j)eut  at  the  sight  of  a  gun.  Surely,  when  the  military  exercise  is 
made  a  branch  of  education  at  so  many  ladies'  academies,  the  use  of  the  musket  would 
only  be  a  judicious  step  further  in  the  march  of  mind.  I  should  not  despair,  iu  a 
month's  practice,  of  making  the  most  timid  British  female  fond  of  small-arms." 

HiSTS  BY  A  COEPOEAL. 

It  can't  be  minced,  I  'm  quite  convinced 

All  girls  are  full  of  flam, 
Their  feelings  fine  and  feminine 

Are  nothing  else  but  sham. 
On  all  their  tricks  I  need  not  fix, 

I  '11  only  mention  one, 
How  many  a  Miss  will  tell  you  this, 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 

There 's  cousin  Bell  can't  'bide  the  smell 

Of  powder — horrid  stuff! 
A  single  pop  will  make  her  drop, 

She  shudders  at  a  puff. 
My  INIanton  near,  with  asj^en  fear 

Will  make  her  scream  and  run ; 
"It's  always  so,  you  brute,  you  know 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 

About  my  flask  I  must  not  ask, 

I  must  not  wear  a  belt, 
I  must  not  take  a  punch  to  make 

My  pellets,  card  or  felt ; 
And  if  I  just  allude  to  dust. 

Or  speak  of  number  one, 
"  I  beg  you  '11  not — don't  talk  of  shot, 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun !" 


I    CANNOT   BEAR  A    GUN.  329 

Percussion  cap  I  dare  not  snap, 

I  may  not  mention  Hall, 
Or  raise  my  voice  for  Mr.  Joyce, 

His  wadding  to  recall ; 
At  Hawker's  book  I  must  not  look, 

All  shooting  I  must  shun, 
Or  else — •■  It 's  hard,  you  "ve  no  regard, 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 

The  very  di'ess  I  wear  no  less 

Must  suit  her  timid  mind, 
A  blue  or  black  must  clothe  my  back, 

With  swallow-tails  behind ; 
Bj  fustian,  jean,  or  velveteen, 

Her  nerves  are  overdone ; 
"  Oh  do  not,  John,  put  gaiters  on, 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun !" 

Even  little  James  she  snubs,  and  blames 

Plis  Lilliputian  train. 
Two  inches  each  from  mouth  to  breech,' 

And  charged  with  half  a  grain — 
His  crackers  stopped,  his  squibbing  dropped. 

He  has  no  fiery  fun. 
And  all  thro'  her  "  How  dare  you,  sir? 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 

Yet  Major  Flint— the  Devil's  in 't ! 

]\Iay  talk  from  morn  to  night. 
Of  springing  mines,  and  twelves  and  nines. 

And  volleys  left  and  right, 
Of  voltigeurs  and  tirailleurs. 

And  bullets  by  the  ton  : 
She  never  dies  of  fright,  or  cries 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 


330  I    CAXNOT    BEAR   A    GUN.  ^ 

It  Stirs  mj  bile  to  see  her  smile 

At  all  his  bang  and  whiz, 
But  if  I  talk  of  morning  walk, 

And  shots  as  good  as  his, 
I  must  not  name  the  fallen  game  : 

As  soon  as  I  've  begun, 
She 's  m  her  pout,  and  crying  out, 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  gun !"' 

Yet,  underneath  the  rose,  her  teeth 

Are  false,  to  match  her  tongue  : 
Grouse,  partridge,  hares,  she  never  spares, 

Or  pheasants,  old  or  young — 
On  widgeon,  teal,  she  makes  a  meal, 

And  yet  objects  to  none ; 
"  What  have  I  got,  it 's  full  of  shot ! 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 

At  pigeon-pie  she  is  not  shy. 

Her  taste  it  never  shocks, 
Though  they  should  be  from  Battersea, 

So  famous  for  blue  rocks ; 
Yet  when  I  bring  the  very  thing 

My  marksmanship  has  won, 
She  cries  '•  Lock  up  that  horrid  cup, 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !"' 

Like  fool  and  dunce  I  got  her  once 

A  box  at  Drury  Lane, 
And  by  her  side  I  felt  a  pride 

I  ne"er  shall  feel  again ; 
To  read  the  bill  it  made  her  ill, 

And  this  excuse  she  spun, 
"  Der  Freyschiitz,  oh.  seven  shots  !  you  know, 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 


I   CANNOT   BEAR   A    GUN.  331 

Yet  at  a  hint  from  Major  Flint, 

Her  very  hands  she  rubs, 
And  quickly  drest  in  all  her  best, 

Is  oflf  to  WorniAVOod  Scrubbs. 
The  whole  review  she  sits  it  through, 

With  noise  enough  to  stun, 
And  never  winks,  or  even  thinks, 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 

She  thus  may  blind  the  Major's  mind 

In  mock-heroic  strife, 
But  let  a  bout  at  war  break  out. 

And  where  's  the  soldier's  wife, 
To  take  his  kit  and  march  a  bit 

Beneath  a  broiling  sun  ? 
Or  will  she  cry,  "  My  dear,  good-bye, 

I  cannot  bear  a  gun !" 

If  thus  she  doats  on  army  coats, 

And  regimental  cuffs. 
The  yeomanry  might  surely  be 

Secure  from  her  rebuffs  ; 
But  when  I  don  my  trappings  on, 

To  follow  Captain  Dunn, 
]\Iy  carbine's  gleam  provokes  a  scream, 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  gun,  " 

It  can't  be  minced,  I  'm  quite  convinced, 

All  girls  are  full  of  flam. 
Their  feelings  fine,  and  feminine. 

Are  nothing  else  but  sham ; 
On  all  their  tricks  I  need  not  fix, 

I'll  only  mention  one. 
How  many  a  ]\Iiss  will  tell  you  this, 

"  I  cannot  bear  a  gun  !" 


332  trimmer's  exercise. 

TRIMMER'S  EXERCISE, 

FOR  THE  rSE  OF  CHILDREX. 

Here,  come,  Master  Timothy  Todd, 

Before  we  have  done  jou  '11  look  grimmer; 

You've  been  spelling  some  time  for  the  rod, 
And  your  jacket  shall  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 

You  don't  know  your  A  from  your  B, 
So  backward  you  are  in  your  Primer  : 

Don't  kneel — you  shall  go  on  my  knee. 
For  I  '11  have  you  to  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 

This  morning  you  hindered  the  cook, 

By  melting  your  dumps  in  the  skimmer ; 

Instead  of  attending  your  book — 

But  I  "11  have  you  to  know  I  "m  a  Trimmer. 

To-day,  too,  you  went  to  the  pond, 

And  bathed,  though  you  are  not  a  swimmer ; 

And  with  parents  so  doting  and  fond — 

But  I  '11  have  you  to  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 

After  dinner  you  went  to  the  wine. 

And  helped  yourself — yes,  to  a  brimmer ; 

You  could  n't  walk  straight  in  a  line, 

But  I  "11  make  you  to  know  I  "m  a  Trimmer. 

You  kick  little  Tomkins  about. 

Because  he  is  slighter  and  slimmer : 

Are  the  weak  to  be  thumped  by  the  stout  ? 
But  I  '11  have  you  to  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 


TO   A    BAD    EIDER.  333 

Then  jou  have  a  slj  pilfering  trick, 

Your  school-fellows  call  jou  the  nimmer — 

I  -will  cut  to  the  bone  i£  you  kick ! 

For  I  '11  have  you  to  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 

To-day  you  made  game  at  my  back  : 

You  think  that  my  eyes  are  grown  dimmer, 

But  I  watched  you,  I  've  got  a  sly  knack ! 
And  I  '11  have  you  to  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 

Don't  think  that  my  temper  is  hot. 

It 's  never  beyond  a  slow  simmer ; 
I  '11  teach  you  to  call  me  Dame  Trot, 

But  I  "11  have  you  to  know  I  "m  a  Trimmer. 

Miss  Edgeworth,  or  Mi's.  Chapone, 

JNIight  melt  to  behold  your  tears  glimmer ; 

Mrs.  Barbauld  would  let  you  alone, 

But  I  '11  have  you  to  know  I  'm  a  Trimmer. 


TO  A   BAD    RIDER. 

Why,  Mr.  Rider,  why 

Your  nag  so  ill  endorse,  man  ? 
To  make  observers  cry. 

You  're  mounted,  but  no  horseman? 

With  elbows  out  so  far 

This  thought  you  can't  debar  me — 
Though  no  Drao;oon — Hussar — 

You  're  surely  of  the  army  ! 

I  hope  to  turn  ISI.P. 

You  have  not  any  notion, 
How  awkward  you  would  be 

At  "  seconding  a  motion !" 


334 


SYMPTOMS   OF   OSSIFICATION. 


SYMPTOMS  OF  OSSIFICATION. 

"An  indifference  to  tears,  and  blood,  and  human  suffering,  that  could  only  belong  to 
ft  Boney-parte." — Life  of  Napoleon. 

Time  was,  I  always  had  a  drop 

For  any  tale  or  sigh  of  sorrow ; 
My  handkerchief  I  used  to  sop 

Till  often  I  Avas  forced  to  borrow ; 
I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  now 

My  eyelids  seldom  want  a  drying ; 
The  doctors,  p'rhaps,  could  tell  me  how — 

I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifying  ! 

O'er  Goethe  how  I  used  to  weep, 

With  turnip  checks  and  nose  of  scarlet, 
When  Werter  put  himself  to  sleep 

With  pistols  kissed  and  cleaned  by  Charlotte; 
Self-murder  is  an  awful  sin, 

No  joke  there  is  in  bullets  flying, 
But  now  at  such  a  tale  I  grin — 

I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifymg ! 

The  Drama  once  could  shake  and  thrill 

]My  nerves,  and  set  my  tears  a  stealing, 
The  Siddons  then  could  turn  at  will 

Each  plug  upon  the  main  of  feeling ; 
At  Belvidera  now  I  smile. 

And  laugh  while  Mrs.  Haller's  crying ; 
'Tis  odd,  so  great  a  change  of  style — 

I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifying  ! 

That  heart  was  such — some  years  ago. 
To  see  a  beggar  quite  would  shock  it, 


THOSE   EVENING   BELLS. 

And  in  his  hat  I  used  to  throw 

The  quarter's  savings  of  my  pocket : 

I  never  wish — as  I  did  then  ! — 

The  means  from  my  own  purse  supplying, 

To  turn  them  all  to  gentlemen — 
I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifying  ! 

We  've  had  some  serious  things  of  late, 

Our  sympathies  to  beg  or  borrow, 
New  melo-drames,  of  ti'agic  fate, 

And  acts,  and  songs,  and  tales  of  sorrow ; 
Miss  Zouch's  case,  our  eyes  to  melt. 

And  sundry  actors  sad  good-bye-ing ; 
But  Lord !— so  little  have  I  felt, 

I  'm  sure  my  heart  is  ossifying ! 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

"i'd  be   a  parody." 

Those  Evening  Bells,  those  Evening  Bells, 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells. 
Of  Yorkshire  cakes  and  crumpets  prime, 
And  letters  only  just  in  time  ! — 

The  Muffin-boy  has  passed  away. 
The  Postman  gone — and  I  must  pay, 
For  down  below  Deaf  j\Iary  dwells, 
And  does  not  hear  those  Evening  Bells. 

And  so  "t  will  be  when  she  is  gone. 
That  tunefal  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
And  other  maids  with  timely  yells 
Forget  to  stay  those  Evening  Bells. 


836  RONDEAU. 

RONDEAU. 

[EXTBAOTED   from   a  TTELL-KNOWIf  AXNTJAL.] 

0  CURIOUS  reader,  didst  thou  ne'er 
Behold  a  worshipful  Lord  May'r 
Seated  in  his  great  civic  chair 

So  dear  ? 

Then  cast  thy  longing  ejes  this  way, 
It  is  the  ninth  November  day, 
And  in  his  new-born  state  survey 

One  here ! 

To  rise  from  little  into  great 
Is  pleasant :  but  to  sink  in  state 
From  high  to  lowly  is  a  fate 

Severe. 

Too  soon  his  shine  is  overcast, 
Chilled  by  the  next  November  blast ; 
His  blushing  honors  only  last 

One  year ! 

He  casts  his  far  and  sheds  his  chains, 
And  moults  till  not  a  plume  remains — 
The  next  impending  May'r  distrains 

His  gear. 

He  slips  like  water  through  a  sieve — 
Ah,  could  his  little  splendor  li^'e 
Ajiother  twelvemonth — he  would  give 

One  ear ! 


DOG-GREL   VERSES,    BY   A   POOR  BLIND.  337 


DOG-GREL  VERSES,  BY  A  POOR  BLIND. 

"  Hark  I  hark  !  the  dogs  do  bark. 
The  beggars  are  coming  .  .    ." — Old  Baixas. 

Oh  what  shall  I  do  for  a  dos:  ? 
Of  sight  I  have  not  got  a  particle, 

Globe,  Standard,  or  Sun, 

Times,  Chronicle — none 
Can  give  one  a  good  leading  article. 

A  Mastiff  once  led  me  about. 

But  people  appeared  so  to  fear  him — 

I  might  have  got  pence 

Without  his  defence. 
But  Charity  would  not  come  near  him. 

A  Blood-hound  was  not  much  amiss, 
But  instinct  at  last  got  the  upper ; 
And  tracking  Bill  Soames, 
And  thieves  to  theLr  homes, 

I  never  could  get  home  to  supper. 

A  Fox-hound  once  served  me  as  guide, 
A  good  one  at  hill  and  at  valley ; 

But  day  after  day 

He  led  me  astray. 
To  follow  a  milk- woman's  tally. 

A  turnspit  once  did  me  good  turns 
At  going  and  crossing,  and  stopping  ; 
Till  one  day  his  breed 
Went  off  at  full  speed, 
To  spit  at  a  great  fii'e  in  Wapping. 
15 


338  DOG-GREL   VERSES,    BY   A    POOR   BLIND. 

A  Pointer  once  pointed  my  waj, 

But  did  not  turn  out  quite  so  pleasant, 

Each  hour  I  'd  a  stop 

At  a  Poulterer's  shop 
To  point  at  a  very  high  pheasant. 

A  Pug  did  not  suit  me  at  all, 
The  feature  unluckily  rose  up  ; 

And  folks  took  offence 

When  offering  pence, 
Because  of  his  turnmg  his  nose  up. 

^  Butcher  once  gave  me  a  dog, 
That  turned  out  the  worse  one  of  any  j 

A  Bull  dog's  own  pup, 

I  got  a  toss  up 
Before  he  had  brought  me  a  penny. 

jSIy  next  was  a  Westminster  Dog, 
From  Aistrop  the  regular  cadger; 

But,  sightless,  I  saw 

He  never  would  draw 
A  blind  man  so  well  as  a  badger. 

A  greyhound  I  got  by  a  swop. 

But,  Lord !  we  soon  came  to  divorces : 

He  treated  my  strip 

Of  cord  like  a  slip. 
And  left  me  to  go  my  own  courses. 

A  poodle  once  towed  me  along, 

But  always  we  came  to  one  harbor: 
To  keep  his  curls  smart. 
And  shave  his  hind  part. 
He  constantly  called  on  a  barber. 


DO(-}-GREL   VERSES,    BY   A    POOR   BLIND. 

My  next  was  a  Newfoundland  brute, 
As  big  as  a  calf  fit  for  slaughter  ; 
But  my  old  cataract 
So  truly  he  backed, 
I  always  fell  into  the  water. 

I  once  had  a  sheep-dog  for  guide. 
His  worth  did  not  value  a  button ; 

I  found  it  no  go. 

A  Smithfield  Ducrow, 
To  stand  on  four  saddles  of  mutton. 

My  next  was  an  Esciuimaux  dog, 

A  dofT  that  my  bones  ached  to  talk  on. 

For  picking  his  ways 

On  cold  frosty  days 
He  picked  out  the  slides  for  a  walk  on. 

Bijou  was  a  lady-like  dog. 

But  vexed  me  at  night  not  a  little, 
"When  tea-time  was  come 
She  would  not  go  home, 
Her  tail  had  once  trailed  a  tin  kettle. 

I  once  had  a  sort  of  a  Shock, 

And  kissed  a  street  post  like  a  brother. 

And  lost  every  tooth 

In  learning  this  truth — 
One  blind  cannot  well  lead  another. 

A  terrier  was  far  from  a  trump. 

He  had  one  defect,  and  a  thorough, 
I  never  could  stir, 
"Od  rabbit  the  cur  ! 
"Without  jroinc^  into  the  Borough. 


339 


340  DOG-GREL   VERSES,    BY   A   POOR   BLIND. 

My  next  was  Dalmatian,  the  dog  ! 
And  led  me  in  danger,  oh  crikey  ! 

By  chasing  horse  heels, 

Between  carriage  wheels, 
Till  I  came  upon  boards  that  were  spiky. 

The  next  that  I  had  was  from  Cross, 
And  once  was  a  favorite  spaniel 
With  Nero,  now  dead. 
And  so  I  was  led 
Right  up  to  his  den  like  a  Daniel. 

A  mongrel  I  tried,  and  he  did. 
As  far  as  the  profit  and  lossing. 
Except  that  the  kind 
Endangers  the  blind. 
The  breed  is  so  fond  of  a  crossing. 

A  setter  was  quite  to  my  taste. 

In  alleys  or  streets  broad  or  narrow, 

Till  one  day  I  met 

A  very  dead  set, 
At  a  very  dead  horse  in  a  barrow. 

I  once  had  a  dog  that  went  mad, 
And  sorry  I  was  that  I  got  him ; 

It  came  to  a  run. 

And  a  man  with  a  gun 
Peppered  me  when  he  ought  to  have  shot  him. 

My  profits  have  gone  to  the  dogs, 
My  trade  has  been  such  a  deceiver, 
I  fear  that  my  aim 
Is  a  mere  losing  game. 
Unless  I  can  find  a  Retriever. 


THE    KANGAROOS.  341 


THE   KANGAROOS. 


A  PAIR  of  married  kangaroos 

(The  case  is  oft  a  human  one  too) 
Were  greatly  puzzled  once  to  choose 

A  trade  to  put  their  eldest  son  to : 
A  little  brisk  and  busy  chap, 

As  all  the  little  K.'s  just  then  are — 
About  some  two  months  off  the  lap — 

They  're  not  so  long  in  arms  as  men  are. 

A  twist  in  each  parental  muzzle 
Betrayed  the  hardship  of  the  puzzle — 

So  much  the  flavor  of  life's  cup 
Is  framed  by  early  wrong  or  right, 
And  Kangaroos  we  know  are  quite 

Dependent  on  their  '•  rearing  up." 
The  question,  with  its  ins  and  outs, 
Is  intricate  and  full  of  doubts ; 

And  yet  they  had  no  squeamish  carings 
For  trades  unfit  or  fit  for  gentry, 
Such  notion  never  had  an  entry. 

For  they  had  no  armorial  bearings, 
Howbeit  they  're  not  the  last  on  earth 
That  might  indulge  in  pride  of  birth ; 

Whoe'er  has  seen  their  infant  young 
Bob  in  and  out  their  mother's  pokes, 

Would  own,  with  very  ready  tongue. 
They  are  not  born  like  common  folks. 
Well,  thus  the  serious  subject  stood, 

It  kept  the  old  pair  watchful  nightly, 


342  THE   KANGAROOS. 

Debating  for  young  hopeful's  good, 
That  he  might  earn  his  livelihood, 

And  go  through  life  (like  them)  uprightly. 
Arms  would  not  do  at  all ;  no,  marrj, 
In  that  Ime  all  his  race  miscarry  ; 

And  agriculture  was  not  proper, 
Unless  they  meant  the  lad  to  tarry 

For  ever  as  a  mere  clod-hopper. 
He  was  not  well  cut  out  for  preaching, 

At  least  in  any  striking  style  : 

And  as  for  being  mercantile — 
He  was  not  formed  for  over-reaching. 
The  law — why  there  still  fate  ill-starred  him, 
And  plainly  from  the  bar  debarred  him : 
A  doctor — who  would-  ever  fee  him  ? 

In  music  he  could  scarce  engage, 

And  as  for  going  on  the  stage 
In  trao;ic  socks  I  think  I  see  him ! 


He  would  not  make  a  rigging -mounter  j 

A  haberdasher  had  some  merit, 
But  there  the  counter  still  ran  counter, 
For  just  suppose 
A  lady  chose 
To  ask  him  for  a  yard  of  ferret  ! 

A  gardener  digging  up  his  beds, 

The  puzzled  parents  shook  then-  heads. 

'•  A  tailor  would  not  do  because — " 
They  paused  and  glanced  upon  his  paws. 

Some  parish  post — though  fate  should  place  it 
Before  him.  how  could  he  embrace  it  ? 


SONNET.  343 

In  short,  each  anxious  Kangaroo 
Discussed  the  matter  through  and  through ; 
Bj  day  thej  seemed  to  get  no  nearer, 

'Ti.vas  posing  quite — 

And  in  the  night 
Of  course  they  saw  their  way  no  clearer  ! 
At  last  thus  musing  on  their  knees — 
Or  hinder  elbows  if  you  please — 
It  came — no  thought  was  ever  brighter ! 
In  weighing  every  why  and  whether, 
They  jumped  upon  it  both  together — 
"  Let  "s  make  the  imp  a  short-hand  icriter  !'^ 

MORAL. 

I  wish  all  human  parents  so 

'Would  argue  what  their  sons  are  fit  for; 
Some  would-be  critics  that  I  know 

Would  be  in  trades  they  have  more  wit  for. 


SOXXET. 
The  sky  is  glowing  in  one  ruddy  sheet ; — 
A  cry  of  fire  I  resounds  from  door  to  door ; 
And  westward  still  the  thi'onging  people  pour ; — 
The  turncock  hastens  to  F.  P.  6  feet, 
And  quick  unlocks  the  fountains  of  the  street ; 
While  rumbling  engines,  with  increasing  roar, 
Thunder  along  to  luckless  Xumber  Four. 
Where  Mr.  Dough  makes  bread  for  folks  to  eat. 
And  now  through  blazing  frames,  and  fiery  beams, 
The  Globe,  the  Sun,  the  Phoenix,  and  what  not, 
With  gushing  pipes  throw  up  abundant  streams, 
On  burning  bricks,  and  twists,  on  rolls — too  hot — 
And  scorching  loaves — as  if  there  were  no  shorter 
And  cheaper  way  of  making  toast-and-water  ! 


L- 


344  THE   SUB-MARINE, 


THE  SUB-MARINE. 


It  was  a  brave  and  jolly  wight, 
His  cheek  was  baked  and  brown, 

For  he  had  been  in  many  climes 
With  captains  of  renown, 

And  fought  with  those  who  fought  so  well 
At  Nile  and  Camperdown. 

His  coat  it  was  a  soldier  coat. 

Of  red  with  yellow  faced, 
But  (merman-like)  he  looked  marine 

All  downward  from  the  waist ; 
His  trowsers  were  so  wide  and  blue, 

And  quite  in  sailor  taste  ! 

He  put  the  rummer  to  his  lips, 

And  drank  a  jolly  draught ; 
He  raised  the  rummer  many  times — 

And  ever  as  he  quaiFed. 
The  more  he  drank,  the  more  the  ship 

Seemed  pitching  fore  and  aft ! 

The  ship  seemed  pitching  fore  and  aft, 

As  in  a  heavy  squall ; 
It  gave  a  lurch  and  down  he  went, 

Head-foremost  in  his  fall  ! 
Three  times  he  did  not  rise,  alas ! 

He  never  rose  at  all ! 

But  down  he  went,  right  down  at  once. 
Like  any  stone  he  dived. 


THE    SUB-MARINE. 


345 


He  could  not  see,  or  hear,  or  feel — 

Of  senses  all  deprived  ! 
At  last  he  gave  a  look  around 

To  see  where  he  arrived  ! 

And  all  that  he  could  see  was  green, 

Sea-green  on  every  hand  ! 
And  then  he  tried  to  sound  beneath, 

And  all  he  felt  was  sand  ! 
There  he  was  fain  to  lie,  for  he 

Could  neither  sit  nor  stand ! 

And  lo  I  above  his  head  there  bent 
A  strange  and  starino;  lass  ! 

One  hand  was  in  her  yellow  hair, 
The  other  held  a  glass  ; 

A  mermaid  she  must  surely  be, 
If  ever  mermaid  was  ! 

Her  fish-like  mouth  was  opened  wide, 
Her  eyes  were  blue  and  pale, 

Her  dress  was  of  the  ocean  green, 
When  ruffled  by  the  gale  ; 

Thought  he  '•'  beneath  that  petticoat 
She  hides  a  salmon- tail !" 

She  looked  as  siren  ought  to  look, 

A  sharp  and  bitter  shrew, 
To  sing  deceiving  lullabies 

For  mariners  to  rue — 
But  when  he  saw  her  lips  apart, 

It  chilled  him  through  and  through ! 

With  either  hand  he  stopped  his  ears 
Against  her  evil  cry ; 
15* 


346  THE   SUB-MARINE. 

Alas,  alas,  for  all  his  care. 
His  doom  it  seemed  to  die, 

Her  voice  went  ringing  through  his  head 
It  was  so  sharp  and  high  ! 

He  thrust  his  fingers  farther  in 

At  each  unwilling  ear, 
But  still,  in  ver  j  spite  of  all. 

The  words  were  plain  and  clear  ; 
"  I  can't  stand  here  the  whole  day  long, 

To  hold  your  glass  of  beer  !'' 

With  opened  mouth  and  opened  eyes, 

Up  rose  the  Sub-marine, 
And  gave  a  stare  to  find  the  sands 

And  deeps  where  he  had  been  : 
There  was  no  siren  with  her  glass  ! 

No  waters  ocean-green  ! 

The  wet  deception  from  his  eyes 
Kept  fading  more  and  more, 
,  He  only  saw  the  bar-maid  stand 

With  pouting  lips  before — 

The  small  green  parlor  of  The  Ship, 
And  little  sanded  floor  ! 


THE  sweep's  complaint.  347 

THE  SWEEP'S  COMPLAINT. 

"  I  like  to  meet  a  sweep — such  as  come  forth  vrith  the  dawn,  or  somewhat  earlier, 
^\■ith  their  little  professional  notes,  sounding  like  the  2)eep,  peep,  of  a  young  sparrow." 
— Essays  of  Elia. 

"  A  voice  cried  Sweep  no  more ! 

Macbeth  hath  murdered  sweep."— Su.ikspeake. 

One  morning  ere  mj  usual  time 
I  rose,  about  the  seventh  chime, 
y>lien  little  stunted  boys  that  climb 

Still  linger  in  the  street ; 
And  as  I  walked,  I  saw  indeed 
A  sample  of  the  sootj  breed, 
Though  he  was  rather  run  to  seed, 

In  height  above  five  feet. 
A  mongrel  tint  he  seemed  to  take, 
Poetic  simile  to  make, 
Day  through  his  Martin  'gan  to  break. 

White  overcoming  jet. 
From  side  to  side  he  crossed  oblique, 
Like  Frenchman  who  has  friends  to  seek, 
And  yet  no  English  word  can  speak, 

He  walked  upon  the  fret : 
And  while  he  sought  the  dingy  job. 
His  laboring  breast  appeared  to  throb, 
And  half  a  hiccup  half  a  sob 

Betrayed  internal  woe. 
To  cry  the  cry  he  had  by  rote 
He  yearned,  but  law  forbade  the  note, 
Like  Chanticleer  with  roupy  throat, 

He  gaped — but  not  a  crow  ! 
I  watched  him,  and  the  glimpse  I  snatched 
Disclosed  his  sorry  eyelids  patched 
With  red,  r.s  if  the  soot  had  catclied 


348  THE  sweep's  complaint. 

That  hung  about  the  lid ; 
And  soon  I  saw  the  tear-di-op  stray, 
He  did  not  care  to  brush  away  ; 
Thought  I  the  cause  he  will  betray — 

And  thus  at  last  he  did. 


Well,  here 's  a  pretty  go  !  here  's  a  Gagging  Act,  if  ever 

there  was  a  gagging  ! 
But  I  'm  bound  the  members  as  silenced  us,  in  doing  it  had 

plenty  of  magging. 
They  had  better  send  us  all  off,  they  had,  to  the  School  for 

the  Deaf  and  Dumb, 
To  unlarn  us  our  mother  .tongues,  and  to  make  signs  and  be 

regularly  mum. 
But  they  can't  undo  natur — as  sure  as  ever  the  morning 

begins  to  peep. 
Directly  I  open  my  eyes,  I  can't  help  calling  out  Sweep 
As  natural  as  the  sparrows  among  the  chimbley-pots  that 

say  Cheep ! 
For  my  own  part  I  find  my  suppressed  voice  very  uneasy, 
And  comparable  to  nothing  but  having  your  tissue   stopt 

when  you  are  sneezy. 
Well,  it 's  all  up  with  us !  tho'  I  suppose  we  must  n't  cry 

all  up. 
Here 's  a  precious  merry  Christmas,  I  'm  blest  if  I  can  earn 

either  bit  or  sup  ! 
If  crying  Sweep,  of  mornings,  is  going  beyond  quietness's 

border, 
Them  as  pretends  to  be  fond  of  silence  ouglitn't  to  cry 

hear,  hear,  and  order,  order. 
I  wonder  Mr.  Sutton,  as  we  've  sut-on  too,  don't  sympathise 

with  us 
As  a  Speaker  what  don't  speak,  and  that 's  exactly  our  own 

cus. 


THE    sweep's   complaint. 


849 


God  help  us  if  wc  don't  not  cry,  Low  arc  we  to  pursue  our 

callings  ? 
I  *m  sure  we  're  not  half  so  bad  as  other  businesses  with 

their  bawlings. 
For  instance,  the  general  postmen,  that  at  six  o'clock  go 

about  ringing. 
And  wake  up  all  the  babbies  that  their  mothers  have  just 

got  to  sleep  with  singing. 
Greens  ought  n't  to  be  cried  no  more  than  blacks — to  do  the 

unpartial  job. 
If  they  bring  in  a  Sooty  Bill,  they  ought  to  have  brought 

in  a  Dusty  Bob. 
Is  a  dustman's  voice  more  sweet  than  ourn,  when  he  comes 

a  seeking  arter  the  cinders. 
Instead  of  a  little  boy  like  a  blackbird  in  spring,  singing 

merrily  under  your  windows  ? 
There  's  the  omnibus  cads  as  plies  in  Cheapside,  and  keeps 

calling  out  Bank  and  City ; 
Let  his  Worship,  the  Mayor,  decide  if  our  call  of  Sweep  is 

not  just  as  pretty. 
I  can't  see  why  the  Jews  should  be  let  go  about  crying  Old 

Close  thro'  their  hooky  noses. 
And  Christian  laws  should  be  ten  times  more  hard  than  the 

old  stone  laws  of  Moses, 
Why  is  n't  the  mouths  of  the  muffin-men  compelled  to  be 

equally  shut? 
Why,  because  Parliament  members  eat  muffins,  but  they 

never  eat  no  sut. 
ISext  year  there  vron't  be  any  May-day  at  all,  we  shan't 

have  no  heart  to  dance. 
And  Jack  in  the  Green  will  go  in  black  like  mourning  f  a- 

our  mischance ; 
If  we  live  as  long  as  May,  that 's  to  say,  through  the  hard 

winter  and  pinching  weather, 


850  THE  sweep's  complaint. 

For  I  don't  see  how  we're  to  earn  enough  to  keep  body  and 

soul  together. 
I  only  wish  Mr.  Wilberforce,  or  some  of  them  that  pities  the 

niggers, 
Vrould  take  a  peep   down  in  our  cellars,  and   look  at  our 

miserable  starving  fio;ures, 
A-sitting  idle  on  our  empty  sacks,  and  all  ready  to  eat  each 

other, 
And  a  brood  of  little  ones  crying  for  bread  to  a  heart-break- 
ing Father  and  Mother. 
They  have  n't  a  rag  of  clothes  to  mend,  if  their  mothers  had 

thread  and  needles. 
But  crawl  naked  about  the  cellars,  poor  things,  like  a  swarm 

of  common  black  beadles. 
If  they  "d  only  inquired  before  passing  the  Act  and  taken  a 

few  such  peeps, 
I  don't  think  that  any  real  gentleman  would  have  set  his 

face  against  sweeps. 
Climbing 's  an  ancient  respectable  art,  and  if  History  's  of 

any  vally, 
'\Vas  recommended  by  Queen  Elizabeth  to  the   great  Sir 

Walter  Raleigh, 
'\Mien  he  wrote  on  a  pane  of  glass  how  I  'd  climb,  if  the 

way  I  only  knew, 
And  she  writ  beneath,  if  your  heart  "s  afeared,  don't  venture 

up  the  flue. 
As  for  me  I  was  always  loyal,  and  respected  all  powers  that 

are  higher. 
But  how  can  I  now  say  God  save  the  King,  if  I  an't  to  be 

a  Cryer? 
There 's  London  milk,  that 's  one  of  the  cries,  even  on  Sun- 
day the  law  allows. 
But  ought  black  sweeps,  that  are  human  beasts,  to  be  worser 

off  than  black  cows  ? 


THE    SWEEP'S   COMPLAINT. 


351 


Do  we  go  calling   about,  when  it 's  cliureli  time,  like  the 

noisy  Billingsgate  vermin, 
And  disturb  the  parson  with  "  All  alive  0  !"  in  the  middle 

of  a  funeral  sermon? 
But  the  fish  won't  keep,  not  the  mackarel  won't,  is  the  crj 

of  the  Parliament  elves. 
Every  thing,  except  the  sweeps  I  think,  is  to  be  allowed  to 

keep  themselves ! 
Lord  help  us!  what's  to  become  of  us  if  we  mustn't  cry 

no  more? 
■\Ve  shan't  do  for  black  mutes  to  go  a  standing  at  a  death's 

door. 
And  we  shan't  do  to  emigrate,  no  not  even  to  the  Hottentot 

nations, 
For  as  time  wears  on,  our  black  will  wear  off,  and  then  think 

of  our  situations ! 
And  we  should  not  do,  in  lieu  of  black-a-moor  footmen,  to 

serve  ladies  of  quality  nimbly. 
For  when  we  were  drest  in  our  sky-blue  and  silver,  and  large 

frills,  all  clean  and  neat",  and  white  silk  stockings,  if 

they  pleased  to  desire  us  to  sweep  the  hearth,  we 

could  n't  resist  the  chimbley. 


352 


COCKLE   VS.   CACKLE. 


COCKXE  vs.  CACKLE. 


Those  who  much  read  advertisements  and  bill^ 
Must  have  seen  puffs  of  Cockle's  Pills, 

Called  Anti-bilious — 
Which  some  Physicians  sneer  at,  supercilious. 
But  which  we  are  assured,  if  timely  taken. 

May  save  your  liver  and  bacon  ; 
Whether  or  not  they  really  give  one  ease, 

I,  who  have  never  tried, 

Will  not  decide ; 
But  no  two  things  in  union  go  like  these — 
Yiz. — Quacks  and  Pills — save  Ducks  and  Peast. 
Now  Mrs.  W.  was  getting  sallow, 
Her  lilies  not  of  the  white  kind,  but  yellow, 
And  .friends  portended  was  preparing  for 

A  human  Pate  Perigord  ; 
She  was,  indeed,  so  very  far  from  well. 
Her  Son,  in  filial  fear,  procured  a  box 
Of  those  said  pellets  to  resist  Bile's  shocks. 
And — tho'  upon  the  ear  it  strangely  knocks — 
To  save  her  by  a  Cockle  from  a  shell ! 
But  Mrs.  W.,  just  like  Macbeth, 
"VMio  very  vehemently  bids  us  "  throw 
Bark  to  the  Bow-wows,"  hated  physic  so, 
It  seemed  to  share  •'  the  bitterness  of  Death  :"' 
Rhubarb — ^Magnesia — Jalap,  and  the  kind — 
genua — Steel — Assafoetida,  and  Squills — 
Powder  or  Draught — but  least  her  throat  inclined 
To  give  a  course  to  Boluses  or  Pills  ; 
Xo — not  to  save  her  life,  in  lung  or  lobe, 


COCKLE   VS.   CACKLE. 


353 


For  all  lier  lights "s  or  all  her  liver's  sake, 
"Would  her  con^'ulsive  thorax  undertake, 
Only  one  little  uncelestial  globe  ! 

'Tis  not  to  "wonder  at,  in  such  a  case. 
If  she  put  by  the  pill-box  in  a  place 
For  linen  i-ather  than  for  di'ugs  intended — 
Yet  for  the  credit  of  the  pills  let  "s  say 

After  they  thus  were  stowed  away, 

Some  of  the  linen  mended ; 
But  ]SIrs.  W.  by  disease's  dint, 
Kept  getting  still  more  yellow  in  her  tint, 
"WTien  lo !  her  second  son,  like  elder  brother, 
Marking  the  hue  on  the  pai-ental  gills. 
Brought  a  new  charge  of  Anti-tumeric  Pills, 
To  bleach  the  jaundiced  visage  of  his  Mother — 
Who  took  them — in  her  cupboard — like  the  other. 

"  Deeper  and  deeper,  still."  of  course. 

The  fatal  color  daily  grew  in  force ; 
Till  daughter  W.,  newly  come  from  Rome, 
Acting  the  self-same  filial,  pilial,  part. 
To  cure  Mama,  another  dose  brought  home 
Of  Cockles  ;— not  the  Cockles  of  her  heart ! 

These  going  where  the  others  went  before. 

Of  course  she  had  a  very  pretty  store  : 
And  then — some  hue  of  health  her  cheek  adorning, 

The  ^ledicine  so  good  must  be. 

They  brought  her  dose  on  dose,  which  she 
Gave  to  the  up-stairs  cupboard,  ••  night  and  morning.'' 
Till  wanting  room  at  last,  for  other  stocks. 
Out  of  the  window  one  fine  day  she  pitched 
The  pillage  of  each  box,  and  quite  enriched 
The  feed  of  Mr.  Burrell's  hens  and  cocks— 


354  COCKLE   vs.   CACKLE. 

A  little  Barber  of  a  by-gone  day, 
Over  the  "svaj, 
Whose  stock  in  trade,  to  keep  the  least  of  shops, 
Was  one  great  head  of  Kemble — that  is,  John, 
Staring  in  plaster,  -^ith  a  Bnitiis  on. 
And  twenty  little  Bantam  fowls — with  arjps. 

Little  Dame  W.  thought  when  through  the  sash 

She  gave  the  physic  wings, 

To  find  the  very  things 
So  good  for  bile,  so  bad  for  chicken  rash, 
For  thoughtless  cock,  and  unreflecting  pullet ! 
But  while  they  gathered  up  the  nauseous  nubbles, 
Each  pecked  itself  into  a  peck  of  troubles. 
And  brought  the  hand  of  Death  upon  its  gullet. 
They  might  as  well  have  addled  been,  or  ratted, 
For  long  before  the  night — ah,  woe  betide 
The  Pills  ! — each  suicidal  Bantam  died 
Unfatted  ! 

Think  of  poor  Burrel's  shock. 
Of  Nature's  debt  to  see  his  hens  all  payers. 
And  laid  in  death  as  Everlastingr  Lavers, 
"With  Bantam's  small  Ex-Emperor,  the  Cock. 
In  ruffled  plumage  and  funereal  hackle. 
Giving,  undone  by  Cockle,  a  last  Cackle ! 
To  see  as  stiff  as  stone  his  unlive  stock, 
It  really  was  enough  to  move  his  block. 
Down  on  the  floor  he  dashed,  with  horror  bier, 
Mr.  Beirs  third  wife's  mother's  coachman's  wig ; 
And  with  a  tragic  stare  like  his  own  Kemble, 
Burst  out  with  natural  emphasis  enough, 

And  voice  that  grief  made  tremble, 
Into  that  very  speech  of  sad  IMacduff — 


COCKLE   VS.  CACKLE.  355 

''  "\^Tiat! — all  mj  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam, 

At  one  fell  swoop  ! — 

Just  when  I  'd  bought  a  coop 
To  see  the  poor  lamented  creatures  cram  !"' 

After  a  little  of  this  mood, 
And  brooding  over  the  departed  brood, 
With  razor  he  began  to  ope  each  craw, 
Already  turning  black,  as  black  as  coals ; 
When  lo !  the  undigested  cause  he  saw — 
'•  Pisoned  by  goles!" 

To  Mrs.  W."s  luck  a  contradiction, 
Ilcr  window  still  stood  open  to  conviction ; 
And  by  short  course  of  circumstantial  labor, 
He  fixed  the  guilt  upon  his  adverse  neighbor ; — 
Lord  !  how  he  railed  at  her :  declaring  now. 
He  'd  bring  an  action  ere  next  Term  of  Hilary, 
Then,  in  another  moment,  swore  a  vow, 
He  'd  make  her  do  pill-penance  in  the  pillory  ! 
She,  meanw^hile  distant  from  the  dimmest  dream 
Of  combating  with  guilt,  yard-arm  or  arm-yard. 
Lapped  in  a  paradise  of  tea  and  cream ; 
When  up  ran  Betty  with  a  dismal  scream — 
'•  Here 's  Mr.  Burrell,  ma'am,  with  all  his  farm-yard !" 
Straight  in  he  came,  unbowing  and  unbending. 
With  all  the  warmth  that  iron  and  a  barber 
Can  harbor ; 
To  dress  the  head  and  front  of  her  offending. 
The  fuming  phial  of  his  wrath  uncorking ; 
In  short,  he  made  her  pay  him  altogether. 
In  hard  cash,  very  hard,  for  ev'ry  feather, 
Charging  of  course,  each  Bantam  as  a  Dorking ; 
Nothing  could  move  him,  nothing  make  him  supple. 


/ 


356  ON   A   NATIVE    SINGER. 

So  the  sad  dame  unpocketing  her  loss, 

Had  nothing  left  but  to  sit  hands  across, 

And  see  her  poultry  "  going  do'^'n  ten  couple." 

No^y  birds  by  poison  slain, 

As  venomed  dart  from  Indian's  hollow  cane, 

Are  edible;  and  Mrs.  W.'s  thrift — 

She  had  a  thrifty  vein — 
Destined  one  pair  for  supper  to  make  shift — 
Supper  as  usual  at  the  hour  of  ten : 
But  ten  o'clock  arrived  and  quickly  passed, 
Eleven — twelve — and  one  o'clock  at  last, 
Without  a  sign  of  supper  even  then ! 
At  length,  the  speed  of  cookery  to  quicken, 
Betty  was  called,  and  with  reluctant  feet, 

Came  up  at  a  white  heat — 
"  Well,  never  I  see  chicken  like  them  chicken ! 
My  saucepans,  they  have  been  a  pretty  while  in  'em ! 
Enough  to  stew  them,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
To  flesh  and  bones,  and  perfect  rags ;  but  drat 
Those  Anti-bilincr  Pills !  there  is  no  bile  in  'em!" 


ON  A  NATIVE  SINGER. 

AFTER  HEAMXG  MISS  ADELAIDE  KEJIBLE. 

As  sweet  as  the  Bird  that  by  calm  Bendemeer, 
Pours  such  rich  modulations  of  tone — 

As  potent,  as  tender,  as  brilliant,  as  clear — 
Still  her  voice  has  a  charm  of  its  own. 

For  lo !  like  the  skylark,  when  after  its  song 
It  drops  down  to  its  nest  from  above, 

She  reminds  us  her  home  and  her  music  belong 
To  the  very  same  soil  that  we  love. 


THE   UNDYING   ONE.  357 

THE  UNDYING  ONE. 

"He  shall   not   die."— Uxcle  Toby. 

Of  all  the  verses,  grave  or  gay, 

That  ever  wiled  an  hour, 
I  never  kuevr  a  mingled  lay 

At  once  so  sweet  and  sour 
As  that  by  Ladye  Xorton  spun, 
And  christened  '•  The  Undying  One." 

I  'm  very  certain  that  she  drew 

A  portrait.*  when  she  penned 
That  picture  of  a  perfect  Jew, 

"^Tiose  days  will  never  end  : 
I  "m  sure  it  means  my  Uncle  Lunn, 
For  he  is  an  Undying  One. 

These  twenty  years  he 's  been  the  same 

And  may  be  twenty  more ; 
But  Memory's  Pleasures  only  claim 

His  features  for  a  score ; 
Yet  in  that  time  the  change  is  none — 
The  image  of  th'  Undying  One ! 

They  say  our  climate's  damp  and  cold, 

And  luno;s  are  tender  things ; 
My  uncle's  much  abroad  and  old. 

But  when  '•  King  Cole''  he  sings, 
A  Stentor's  voice,  enough  to  stun, 
Declares  him  au  Undying  One. 

Others  have  died  from  needle-pricks, 
And  very  slender  blows ; 


358  THE   UNDYING   ONE. 

From  accidental  slips  or  kicks, 

Or  bleeding  at  the  nose  ; 
Or  choked  bj  grape-stone,  or  a  bun— 
But  he  is  the  Undying  One  ! 

A  soldier  once,  he  once  endured 

A  bullet  in  the  breast — 
It  might  have  killed — but  only  cured 

An  asthma  in  the  chest ; 
He  Avas  not  to  be  slain  Avith  gun. 
For  he  is  the  Undying  One. 

In  water  once  too  long  he  dived, 

And  all  supposed  him  beat. 
He  seemed  so  cold — but  he  revived 

To  have  another  heat. 
Just  when  we  thought  his  race  was  run. 
And  came  in  fresh — th'  Undying  One  I 

To  look  at  Meux's  once  he  went, 

And  tumbled  in  the  vat — 
And  greater  Jobs  their  lives  have  spent 

In  lesser  boils  than  that — 
He  left  the  beer  quite  underdone. 
No  bier  to  the  Undying  One ! 

He 's  been  from  strangulation  black, 

From  bile,  of  yellow  hue, 
Scarlet  from  fever's  hot  attack, 

From  cholera  morbus  blue  ; 
Yet  with  these  dyes — to  use  a  pun — 
He  still  is  the  Undying  One. 

He  rolls  in  wealth,  yet  has  no  wife 
His  Three  per  Cents,  to  share ; 


A    CUSTOM-HOUSE    BREEZE.  359 

Ho  never  married  in  his  life, 

Or  flirted  with  the  fair ; 
The  sex  he  made  a  point  to  shun. 
For  beauty  an  Undjing  One. 

To  judge  him  by  the  present  signs, 

The  future  bj  the  past, 
So  quick  he  lives,  so  slow  declines. 

The  Last  ]Man  won't  be  last, 
But  buried  underneath  a  ton 
Of  mould  bj  the  Undjang  One  ! 

Next  Friday  week,  his  birth-day  boast, 

His  ninetieth  year  he  spends, 
And  I  shall  have  his  health  to  toast 

Amongst  expectant  fi'iends, 
And  wish — it  really  sounds  like  fun — 
Long  life  to  the  Undying  One  ! 


A  CUSTOM-HOUSE   BREEZE. 

One  day — no  matter  for  the  month  or  year, 

A  Calais  packet,  just  come  over, 
And  safely  moored  within  her  pier, 

Began  to  land  her  passengers  at  Dover ; 
All  glad  to  end  a  voyage  long  and  rough. 
And  during  which 
Through  roll  and  pitch, 
The  Ocean-King  had  s/cA"ophants  enough  ! 

Away,  as  fast  as  they  could  walk  or  run. 
Eager  for  steady  rooms  and  quiet  meals, 
With  bundles,  bags,  and  boxes  at  their  heels, 

Away  the  passengers  all  went,  but  one. 


360  A   CUSTOM-HOUSE    BREEZE. 

A  female,  who  from  some  mysterious  check, 
Still  lingered  on  the  steamer's  deck, 
As  if  she  did  not  care  for  land  a  tittle, 
For  horizontal  rooms,  and  cleanly  victual — 
Or  nervously  afraid  to  put 
Her  foot 
Into  an  Isle  described  as  "tight  and  little." 

In  vain  commissioner  and  touter, 
Porter  and  waiter  thronged  about  her; 
Boring,  as  such  officials  only  bore — 

In  spite  of  rope  and  barrow,  knot,  and  truck, 
Of  plank  and  ladder,  there  she  stuck. 
She  couldn't,  no  she  wouldn't  go  on  shore. 

"  But,  ma'am,"  the  steward  interfered, 
"  The  wessel  must  be  cleared. 
You  musn't  stay  aboard,  ma'am,  no  one  don't ! 
It 's  quite  agin  the  orders  so  to  do — 
And  all  the  passengers  is  gone  but  you." 
Says  she,  "  I  can  not  go  ashore,  and  won't!", 
"  You  ought  to  !" 
"  But  I  can't !" 
"You  must!" 
"I  shan't!" 

At  last,  attracted  by  the  racket 
'Twixt  gown  and  jacket. 
The  captain  came  himself,  and,  cap  in  hand. 

Begged  very  civilly  to  understand 
Wherefore  the  lady  could  not  leave  the  packet. 

"  "WTiy  then,"  the  lady  whispered  with  a  shiver, 
That  made  the  accents  quiver, 


PAIN   IN   A    PLEASURE-BOAT.        .  861 

"  I  've  got  some  foreign  silks  about  me  pinned, 
In  short  so  many  things,  all  contraband, 
To  tell  the  truth  I  am  nfraid  to  land, 

In  such  a  search'iiuj  wind  !" 


PAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE-BOAT. 

A   SEA   ECLOGUE. 

"  I  apprehend  you !" — School  of  IlEFORjr. 

BOATMAN. 

Shove  off  there  ! — ship  the  rudder,  Bill — cast  off— she  "s 
under  weigh  ! 

MRS.  F. 

She  "s  under  what  ? — I  hope  she 's  not !  good  gracious,  what 
a  spray ! 

BOATxMAN. 

Run  out  the  jib,  and  rig  the  boom  !  keep  clear  of  those  two 
brigs  ! 

MRS.  F. 

I  hope  they  don't  intend  some  joke  by  running  of  their  rigs! 

BOATMAN. 

Bill,  shift  them  bags  of  ballast  aft— she  's  rather  out  of  trim! 

MRS.  F. 
Great  bags  of  stones  !  they  're  pretty  things  to  help  a  boat 
to  swim ! 

BOATMAN. 

The  wind  is  fresh — if  she  don't  scud,  it 's  not  the  breeze's 
fliult ! 

MRS.  F. 

Wind  fresh,  indeed,  I  never  felt  the  air  so  full  of  salt ! 

16 


362  PAIN   IN   A    PLEASURE-BOAT. 

BOATMAN. 

That  Schooner,  Bill,  harn't  left  the  roads,  with  oranges  and 

nuts  ! 

MRS.  F. 
If  seas  have  roads,  they  're  very  rough — I  never  felt  sueli 

ruts! 

BOATMAN. 

It's  neap,  ye  see,  she  's  heavy  lade,  and  could  n't. pass  the 
bar. 

MRS.    F. 

The  bar  !  what !  roads  with  turnpikes  too  ?     I  wonder  where 
they  are ! 

BOATMAN. 

Ho !  brigh  ahoy !  hard  up  !  hard  up  !  that  lubber  cannot 
steer ! 

MRS.    F. 

Yes,  yes — hard  up  upon  a  rock  !     I  know  some  danger 's 

near ! 
Lord,  there 's  a  wave  !  it 's  coming  in  !  and  roaring  like  a 

bull! 

BOATMAN. 

Nothing,  Ma'am,  but  a  little  slop !  go  large.  Bill !  keep  her 
full! 

MRS.    F. 

What,   keep  her  full !  what  daring  work  !  when  full,  she 
must  do  down ! 

BOATMAN. 

"Why,  Bill,  it  lulls  !  ease  off  a  bit — it 's  coming  off  the  town  ! 
Steady  your  helm!    we'll  clear  the  Pint!  lay  right  for 

yonder  pink! 

MRS.  P. 
Be  steady — well,  I  hope  they  can !  but  they  've  got  a  pint 

of  drink ! 


PAIN   IN    A    PLEASURE-BOAT.  363 

BOATMAN. 
Bill,  give  that  sheet  another  haul — she  '11  fetch  it  up  this 
reach. 

MRS.    F. 

I  'm  getting  rather  pale,  I  know,  and  thej  see  it  by  that 

speech  ! 
I  -wonder  what  it  is,  now,  but 1  never  felt  so  queer  ! 

BOATMAN. 

Bill,  mind  your  luff — why  Bill,  I  say,  she  's  yawing — keep 
her  near ! 

MRS.    F. 
Keep  near !  we  're  going  further  off;  the  land 's  behind  our 

backs. 

BOATMAN. 
Be  easy,   Ma'am,    it's  all  correct,   that's   only  'cause  we 

tacks : 
We  shall  have  to  beat  about  a  bit — Bill,  keep  her  out  to 

sea. 

MRS.    F. 
Beat  who  about  ?  keep  who  at  sea  ? — how  black  they  look 
at  me ! 

BOATMAN. 

It 's  veerincr  round — I  knew  it  would !  off  with  her  head  ! 

stand  by ! 

MRS.   F. 
Off  with  her  head  !  whose  ?  where  ?  with  what ! — an  axe  I 

seem  to  spy ! 

BOATMAN. 
She  can't  not  keep  her  own,  you  see  :  we  shall  have  to  pull 
her  in ! 

MRS.    F. 
They  "11  drown  me,  and  take  all  I  have !  my  life 's  not  worth 
a  pin ! 


364  QUAKEE   SONXET 

BOATMAN. 

Look  out,  you  know,  be  ready,  Bill— just  when  she  takes 
the  sand  ! 

MRS.    F. 

The  sand — 0  Lord  I  to  stop  my  mouth  !  how  every  thing  is 
planned  ! 

BOATMAX. 

The  handspike.  Bill — C|uick,  bear  a  hand  !  now  Ma'am,  just 

step  ashore ! 

MRS.    F. 
What !  an't  I  going  to  be  killed — and  weltered  in  my  gore? 
"Well,  Heaven  be  praised  !  but  I  '11  not  go  a  sailing  any 

more  ! 


QUAKER  SONNET. 

A   GEXTEvE   EROWX   STUDY   AFTER  XATTRE,    BY   xi.  If. 

How  sweet  thus  clad,  in  Autumn's  mellow  Tone, 
With  serious  Eye,  the  russet  Scene  to  view  ! 
No  Yerdure  decks  the  Forest,  save  alone 
The  sad  green  Holly,  and  the  olive  Yew. 
The  Skies,  no  longer  of  a  garish  Blue. 
Subdued  to  Dove-like  Tints,  and  soft  as  Wool, 
Reflected  show  their  slaty  Shades  anew 
In  the  drab  Waters  of  the  clayey  Pool. 
Meanwhile  yon  Cottage  Maiden  wends  to  School, 
In  Garb  of  Chocolate  so  neatly  drest. 
And  Bonnet  puce,  fit  object  for  the  Tool, 
And  chastened  Pigments,  of  our  Brother  West ; 
Yea,  all  is  silent,  sober,  calm,  and  cool, 
Save  gaudy  Robin  with  his  crimson  Breast. 


LITERARY  AND  LITERAL.  365 


LITERARY  AND   LITERAL. 

The  ;Marcli  of  ^lind  upon  its  mighty  stilts, 
(A  spirit  by  no  means  to  fasten  mocks  on, ) 
In  travelling  through  Berks,  Beds,  Notts,  and  Wilts, 

Hants — Bucks,  Herts,  Oxon, 
Got  up  a  thing  our  ancestors  ne'er  thought  on, 
A  thing  that,  only  in  our  proper  youth, 
We  should  have  chuckled  at — in  sober  truth, 
A  Conversazione  at  Hog"s  Norton  ! 

A  place  whose  native  dialect,  somehow, 
Has  always  by  an  adage  been  affronted, 
And  that  it  is  all  gutturals,  is  now 
Taken  for  grunted. 

Conceive  the  snoring  of  a  greedy  swine. 
The  slobbering  of  a  hungry  Ursine  Sloth — 
If  you  have  ever  heard  such  creature  dine — 
^^tl — for  Hog"s  Norton,  make  a  mix  of  both  ! — 

0  shades  of  Shakspeare !   Chaucer '.   Spenser  ! 

Milton!  Pope!  Gray!  Warton ! 
0  Coleman !  Kenny  !  Planche !  Poole !  Peake  1 

Pocock!  Keynolds!  Morton! 
0  Grey !  Peel !   Sadler  !  Wilberforce  !  Burdett ! 

Hume  !  Wilmot !  Horton  ! 
Think  of  your  prose  and  verse,  and  worse — delivered  in 
Hocr's  Norton  ! — 

The  founder  of  Hog"s  Norton  Athenseum 

Framed  her  society 

"With  some  variety 
From  Mr.  Roscoe's  Liverpool  museum ; 


366  LITERARY   AND    LITERAL, 

Not  a  mere  pic-nic  for  the  mind's  repast, 
But  tempting  to  the  solid  knife-and-forker, 
It  hekl  its  sessions  in  a  house  that  kast 
Had  killed  a  porker. 

It  chanced  one  Friday, 
One  Farmer  Grayley  stuck  a  very  big  hog, 
A  perfect  Gog  or  Magog  of  a  pig-hog, 

Which  made  of  course  a  literary  high  day 

Not  that  our  Farmer  was  a  man  to  go 

With  literary  tastes — so  far  from  suiting  'em, 

When  he  heard  mention  of  Professor  Crowe^ 

Or  Lalla-i?ooA7i,  he  always  was  for  shooting  'em ! 

In  fact  in  letters  he  was  quite  a  log, 

With  him  great  Bacon 

Was  literally  taken, 
And  Hogg — the  Poet — nothing  but  a  Hog  ! 
As  to  all  others  on  the  list  of  Fame, 
Although  they  were  discussed  and  mentioned  daily. 
He  only  recognized  one  classic  name, 
And  thought  that  she  had  hung  herself — Miss  Baillie ! 

To  balance  this,  our  Farmer's  only  daughter 
Had  a  great  taste  for  the  Castalian  water — 
A  Wordsworth  worshipper — a  Southcy  wooer — 
(Though  men  that  deal  in  water-color  cakes 
May  disbelieve  the  fact — ^yet  nothing 's  truer) 

She  got  the  bluer 
The  more  she  dipped  and  dabbled  in  the  Lakes. 
The  secret  truth  is,  Hope,  the  old  deceiver, 
At  future  Authorship  was  apt  to  hint, 
Producing  what  some  call  the  Type-us  Fever, 
Which  means  a  burning  to  be  seen  in  print. 


LITERARY   AND    LITERAL. 


367 


Of  learning's  laurels— Miss  Joanna  Baillie— 
Of  Mrs.  Hemans— Mrs.  Wilson— daily 
Dreamt  Anne  Priscilla  Isabella  Grayley  ; 
And  Fancy  hinting  that  she  had  the  better 
Of  L.E.L.  by  one  initial  letter, 
She  thought  the  world  would  quite  enraptured  see 

"Love  Lays  and  Lyrics 

BY 

A.  P.  L  G." 

Accordingly,  with  very  great  propriety, 
She  joined  the  H.  N.  B.,  and  double  S., 
That  is— Hog's  Norton  Blue  Stocking  Society; 
And  saving  when  her  Pa  his  pigs  prohibited, 

Contributed 
Her  pork  and  poetry  towards  the  mess. 

This  feast,  we  said,  one  Friday  was  the  case, 
When  Farmer  Grayley— from  Macbeth  to  quote- 
Screwing  his  courage  to  the  "  sticking-place,' 
Stuck  a  large  knife  mto  a  grunter's  throat:— 
A  kind  of  murder  that  the  law's  rebuke 
Seldom  condemns  by  shake  of  its  peruke, 
Sho\NTng  the  little  sympathy  of  hig-icigs 
With  pig-wigs ! 

The  swine— poor  wretch  '.—with  nobody  to  speak  for  it, 
And  beg  its  life,  resolved  to  have  a  squeak  for  it ; 
So— like  the  fabled  swan— died  smging  out. 
And,  thus,  there  issued  from  the  farmer's  yard 
A  note  that  notified  without  a  card, 
An  invitation  to  the  evening  rout. 


S68  LITERARY    AND    LITERAL. 

And  when  the  time  came  duly — "  At  the  close  of 
The  daj,"  as  Beattie  has  it,  "  when  the  ham — " 
Bacon,  and  pork  were  ready  to  dispose  of, 
And  pettitoes  and  chit' lings  too,  to  cram — 
Walked  in  the  H.  N.  B.  and  double  S.'s, 
All  in  appropriate  and  swinish  dresses. 
For  lo  !  it  is  a  fact,  and  not  a  joke, 
Although  the  Muse  might  fairly  jest  upon  it. 
They  came — each  "  Pig-faced  Lady,"  in  that  bonnet 

We  call  a  j)oke. 
The  Members  all  assembled  thus,  a  rare  woman 
At  pork  and  poetry  was  chosen  chalnvoman  ; — 
In  fact,  the  bluest  of  the  Blues,  Miss  Ikey, 
Whose  whole  pronunciation  was  so  piggy, 
She  always  named  the  authoress  of  "  Psyche'^ — 

As  ]\Irs.  Tiggey  ! 

And  now  arose  a  question  of  some  moment — 

What  author  for  a  lecture  was  the  richer, 

Bacon  or  Hogg  ?  there  were  no  votes  for  Beaumont, 

But  some  for  FUtcher  ; 
While  others,  with  a  more  sagacious  reasoning, 

Proposed  another  work. 

And  thought  their  pork 
Would  prove  more  relishing  from  Thomson's  Season-ing ! 
But,  practised  in  Shakspearian  readings  daily — 
0 !  Miss  Macaulay !   Shakspeare  at  Hog's  Norton  ! — 
Miss  Anne  Priscilla  Isabella  Grayley 
Selected  hitn  that  evenino;  to  snort  on. 
In  short,  to  make  our  story  not  a  big  tale, 

Just  fancy  her  exerting 

Her  talents,  and  converting 
The  Winter's  Tale  to  something  like  a  pig-tale ! 


I  'm  not  a  single  man.  369 

Her  sister  auditory, 
All  sitting  round,  with  grave  and  learned  faces, 

Were  very  plauditorj, 
Of  course,  and  clapped  her  at  the  proper  places ; 
Till  fanned  at  once  by  fortune  and  the  Muse, 
She  thought  herself  the  blessedest  of  Blues. 
But  Happiness,  alas  !  has  blights  of  ill. 

And  Pleasure's  bubbles  in  the  air  explode ; 

There  is  no  travelling  through  life  but  still 
The  heart  will  meet  with  breakers  on  the  road ! 

With  that  peculiar  voice 
Heard  onlj  from  Hog's  Norton  throats  and  noses, 
Miss  G.,  with  Perdita,  was  making  choice 
Of  buds  and  blossoms  for  her  summer  posies, 
When  coming  to  that  line,  where  Proserpine 
Lets  fall  her  flowers  from  the  wain  of  Dis ; 

Imagine  this — 
Up  rose  on  his  hind  legs  old  Farmer  Graylej, 
Grunting  this  question  for  the  club's  digestion, 
"  Do  Dis's  Wagon  go  from  the  Quid  Baaley?" 


I  'M  NOT  A  SINGLE  MAN. 

"Double,  single,  and  the  rub."— Hotle. 
"  This,  this  is  Solitude."— BvEoy. 

Well,  I  confess,  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow 
Would  make  me  find  all  womenkind 

Such  unkind  women  now ! 
They  need  not,  sure,  as  distant  be 

As  Java  or  Japan — 
Yet  every  i\Iis3  reminds  me  this — 

I  "m  not  a  single  man ! 
16* 


370  I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Once  thej  made  choice  of  mj  bass  voice 

To  share  in  each  duett ; 
So  well  I  danced,  I  somehow  chanced 

To  stand  in  every  set : 
They  now  declare  I  cannot  sing, 

And  dance  on  Bruin^s  plan ; 
Me  dravf ! — me  paint ! — me  anything ! — 

I  "m  not  a  single  man ! 

Once  I  was  asked  advice,  and  tasked 

What  works  to  buy  or  not. 
And  "  would  I  read  that  passage  out 

I  so  admired  in  Scott?" 
They  then  could  bear  to  hear  one  read ; 

But  if  I  now  began, 
How  they  would  snub,  ' '  My  pretty  page," 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

One  used  to  stitch  a  collar  then, 

Another  hemmed  a  frill ; 
I  had  more  purses  netted  then 

Than  I  could  hope  to  fill. 
I  once  could  get  a  button  on, 

But  now  I  never  can — 
My  buttons  then  were  Bachelor's — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Oh  how  they  hated  politics 

Thrust  on  mo  by  papa  : 
But  now  my  chat — they  all  leave  that 

To  entertain  mama. 
Mama,  Avho  praises  her  own  self, 

Instead  of  Jane  or  Ann, 
And  lays  "her  girls"  upon  the  shelf — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


I  'm  not  a  single  man. 

Ah  me,  how  strange  it  is  the  change, 

In  parlor  and  in  hall, 
Thej  treat  me  so,  if  I  but  go 

To  make  a  morning  call. 
K  they  had  hair  in  papers  once, 

Bolt  up  the  stairs  they  ran ; 
They  now  sit  still  in  dishabille — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Miss  ilary  Bond  was  once  so  fond 

Of  Romans  and  of  Greeks ; 
She  daily  sought  my  caljinet 

To  study  my  antiques. 
Well,  now  she  does  n't  care  a  dump 

For  ancient  pot  or  pan, 
Her  taste  at  once  is  modernized — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man ! 

My  spouse  is  fond  of  homely  life, 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing ; 
I  go  to  balls  without  my  wife, 

And  never  wear  a  ring : 
And  yet  each  Miss  to  whom  I  come. 

As  strange  as  Genghis  Khan, 
Knows  by  some  sign,  I  cau"t  divine — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man ! 

Go  where  I  will,  I  but  intrude, 

I  'm  left  in  crowded  rooms, 
Like  Zimmerman  on  Solitude, 

Or  Hervey  at  his  Tombs. 
From  head  to  heel,  they  make  me  feel, 

or  quite  another  clan ; 
Compelled  to  own,  though  left  alone, 

I 'm  not  a  sins-le  man  ! 


371 


372  I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Miss  Towne  the  toast,  though  she  can  boast 

A  nose  of  Roman  line, 
Will  turn  up  even  that  in  scorn 

Of  compliments  of  mine  : 
She  should  have  seen  that  I  have  been 

Her  sex's  partisan, 
And  really  married  all  I  could — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man ! 

'Tis  hard  to  see  how  others  fare, 

Whilst  I  rejected  stand — 
Will  no  one  take  my  arm  because 

They  cannot  have  my  hand? 
Miss  Parry,  that  for  some  would  go 

A  trip  to  Hindostan, 
With  me  don't  care  to  mount  a  stair — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Some  change,  of  course,  should  be  in  force, 

But,  surely,  not  so  much — 
There  may  be  hands  I  may  not  squeeze, 

But  must  I  never  touch  ? — 
Must  I  forbear  to  hand  a  chau'. 

And  not  pick  up  a  fan  ? 
But  I  have  been  myself  picked  up — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

Others  may  hint  a  lady's  tint 

Is  purest  red  and  white — 
May  say  her  eyes  are  like  the  skies. 

So  very  blue  and  bright — 
/  must  not  say  that  she  has  eyes, 

Or  if  I  so  began, 
I  have  my  fears  about  my  ears — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


TO    C.    DICKENS,    ESQ. 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow, 
Would  make  me  find  all  womenkind 

Such  unkind  women  now  ; — 
I  miglit  be  hashed  to  death,  or  smashed. 

By  Mr.  Pickford's  van. 
Without,  I  fear,  a  single  tear — 

I  'm  not  a  single  man ! 


373 


TO  C.  DICKENS,  ESQ., 

ox   HIS    DEPARXrRE    FOR   AMERICA.^ 

Pshaw  !  away  with  leaf  and  berry, 

And  the  sober-sided  cup  ! 
Brmg  a  goblet,  and  bright  sherry, 

And  a  bumper  fill  me  up  ! 
Though  a  pledge  I  had  to  shiver, 

And  the  longest  ever  was ! 
Ere  his  vessel  leaves  our  river, 

I  would  drink  a  health  to  Boz  ! 


Here 's  success  to  all  his  antics, 

Since  it  pleases  him  to  roam. 
And  to  paddle  o'er  Atlantics, 

After  such  a  sale  at  home  ! 
May  he  shun  all  rocks  whatever. 

And  each  shallow  sand  that  lurks, 
And  his  passage  be  as  clever 

As  the  best  among  his  works. 


374  BLANK   VERSE   IX    EHYME. 

A  PLAN  FOR 

WRITING  BLANK  VERSE  IN  RHYME. 

IN'   A   LETTER   TO    THE    EDITOR. 

Respected  Sir, — In  a  morning  paper  justly  celebrated 
for  the  acuteness  of  its  reportei-s,  and  their  almost  prophetic 
insio-ht  into  chai-acter  and  motives — the  Rhodian  length  of 
their  leaps  towards  results,  and  the  magnitude  of  their  in- 
ferences, bevond  the  di'awing  of  Meux's  dray-horses — there 
appeared,  a  few  days  since,  the  following  paragraph : 

'•  Mansion  House.  Yesterday,  a  tall,  emaciated  being,  in 
a  brown  coat,  indicating  his  age  to  be  about  forty-five,  and 
the  raggedness  of  which  gave  a  great  air  of  mental  ingenuity 
and  intelligence  to  his  countenance,  wais  introduced  by  the 
officei"s  to  the  Lord  Mayor.  It  was  evident,  from  his  pre- 
liminary bow.  that  he  had  made  some  discoveries  in  the  art 
of  poetiy,  which  he  wished  to  lay  before  his  Lordship,  but 
the  Lord  !Mayor  perceiving  by  his  accent  that  he  had  al- 
ready submitted  his  project  to  several  of  the  leading  Pub- 
lishers, referred  him  back  to  the  same  jurisdiction,  and  the 
unfortunate  ^'otary  of  the  jNIuses  withdrew,  declaring  by 
another  bow,  that  he  should  offer  bis  plan  to  the  Editor  of 
the  Comic  Annual." 

The  unfortunate  above  referred  to,  Sii",  is  myself,  and 
with  regard  to  the  Muses,  indeed  a  votary,  though  not  a 
<£10  one,  if  the  (qualification  depends  on  my  pocket — ^but  for 
the  idea  of  addressing  myself  to  the  editor  of  the  Comic 
Annual,  I  am  indebted  solely  to  the  assumption  of  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  Press.  That  I  have  made  a  discovery  is  true, 
in  common  with  Hervey.  and  Herschell,  and  Galileo,  and 
Roger  Bacon,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  with  Columbus — my 


BLANK    VERSE    IN    lUIYME.  375 

invention  concerning  a  whole  hemisphere,  as  it  were,  in  tlio 
world  of  poetry— in  short,  the  whole  continent  of  blank 
verse.      To  an  immense  number   of  readers   this  literarj 
land  has  been  hitherto  a  complete  terra  incognita,  and  from 
one  sole  reason— the  want  of  that  harmony  which  makes  thj 
close  of  one  Imc  chime  with  the  end  of  another.     They  have 
no  relish  for  numbers  that  turn  up  blank,  and  wonder  ac- 
cordingly at  the  epithet  of  "  Prize"  prefixed  to  Poems  of^tho 
kind  which  emanate  in— I  was  going  to  say  from— the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford.     Thus  many  very  worthy  members  of 
society  are  unable  to  appreciate  the  Paradise  Lost,  the  Task, 
the  Chase,  or  the  Seasons— the  Winter  especially— without 
rhyme.     Others,  again,  can  read  the  Poems  in  ciuestion,  but 
with  a  limited  enjoyment;  as  certain  persons  can  admire 
the  architectural  beauties  of  Salisbury  steeple,  but  would 
like  it  better  with  a  ring  of  bells.     Por  either  of  these  tastes 
my  discovery  will  provide,  without  a&onting  the  palate  of 
any  other ;  for  although  the  lover  of  rhyme  will  find  in  it  a 
prodigality  hitherto  unknown,  the  heroic  character  of  blank 
verse°will  not  suffer  in  the  least,  but  each  line  will  '"  do  as 
it  likes  with  its  own,"  and  sound  as  independently  of  the 
next  as,  -milk-maid,"  and  "water-carrier."     1  have  the 
honor  to  subjoin  a  specimen— and  if,  through  your  publicity, 
llx.  :^Iurray  should  be  induced  to  make  me  an  offer  for  an 
Edition  of  Paradise  Lost  on  this  principle,  for  the  Family 
Library,  it  will  be  an  eternal  obligation  on, 

Respected  Sir,  your  most  obliged,  and  humble  servant, 
^  ******* 

A   NOCTURXAL    SKETCH. 
Even  is  come ;  and  from  the  dark  Park,  hark, 
The  signal  of  the  setting  smi — one  gun ! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Laue  Dane  slain — 


376  BLANK   VERSE    IX    RHYME. 

Or  hear  Othello's  jealous  doubt  spout  out — 
Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made  blade, 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch  ; — 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span ; 
Or  in  the  small  Olympic  Pitt,  sit  split 
Laughing  at  Listen,  -while  you  quiz  his  phiz. 

Anon  Xio;ht  comes,  and  with  her  wins-s  brino-s  things 
Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tongue,  Young  sung ; 
The  gas  up-blazes  with  its  bright  white  light, 
And  paralytic  watchmen  prowl,  howl,  growl, 
About  the  streets  and  take  up  Pall-]Mal  Sal, 
Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  to  enter  for  j-our  cash,  smash,  crash, 
Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deep  sleep,  creep, 
"But  fr-ightened  by  Policeman  B.  3,  flee, 
And  while  they  "re  going,  whisper  low,  '•  Xo  go  !"' 

Kow  puss,  while  folks  are  in  their  beds,  treads  leads. 
And  sleepers  waking,  grumble^-  Drat  that  cat !" 
Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  mauls 
Some  feline  foe.  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-v>'ill. 

Now  Bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a  prize  size,  rise 
In  childish  dreams,  and  with  a  roar  gore  poor 
Georgy,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly  ; — 
But  Nursemaid  in  a  nightmare  rest,  chest-pressed, 
Dreameth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  Games, 
And  that  she  hears — what  fiith  is  man's — Ann's  banns 
And  his,  from  Reverend  'Mv.  Rice,  twice,  thrice ; 
^Yhite  ribbons  flourish,  and  a  stout  shout  out, 
That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those  bows'  woes ! 


UP    THE    RHINE, 


377 


UP  THE  RHINE. 

"WHAT    MR.    GRUNDY    SATS   OF    THE    XATTTES. 

Ye  Tourists  and  Travellers,  bound  to  the  Rhine, 
Provided  with  passport,  that  requisite  docket, 

First  listen  to  one  little  -whisper  of  mine — 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  vour  pocket ! 

Don't  wash  or  be  shaved — go  like  hairy  wild  men. 

Play  dominoes,  smoke,  wear  a  cap,  and  smock-frock  it, 

But  if  you  speak  English,  or  look  it,  why  then 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

You  "11  sleep  at  great  inns,  in  the  smallest  of  beds 
Find  charges  as  apt  to  mount  up  as  a  rocket, 

With  thirty  per  cent,  as  a  tax  on  your  heads. 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

You  "11  see  old  Cologne — not  the  sweetest  of  towns — 
Wherever  you  follow  your  nose  you  will  shock  it ; 

And  you  "11  pay  your  three  dollars  to  look  at  three  crowns. 
Take  care  of  your  pocket !  —  take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

You  11  count  seven  Mountains,  and  see  Roland's  Eck, 
Hear  legends  veracious  as  any  by  Crockett ; 

But  oh  !  to  the  tone  of  romance  what  a  check. 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

Old  Castles  you  "11  see  on  the  vine-covered  hill — 
Fine  ruins  to  rivet  the  eye  in  its  socket — 

Once  haunts  of  Baronial  Banditti — and  still 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket . 


378  UP   THE    RHINE. 

You  '11  stop  at  Coblentz,  with  its  beautiful  views, 
But  make  no  long  stay  with  your  money  to  stock  it, 

"Where  Jews  are  all  Germans,  and  Germans  all  Jews, 
Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

A  Fortress  you  "11  see,  which,  as  people  report, 

Can  never  be  captured,  save  famine  should  block  it — 

Ascend  Ehrenbreitstein — but  that's  not  their /o7Vc, 
Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

You  '11  see  an  old  man  who  "11  let  off  an  old  gun. 
And  Lurley,  with  her  hurly-burly,  will  mock  it ; 

But  think  that  the  words  of  the  echo  thus  run. 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

You  '11  gaze  on  the  Rheingau,  the  soil  of  the  Vine  ! 

Of  course  you  will  freely  Moselle  it  and  Hock  it — 
P'raps  purchase  some  pieces  of  Humbugheim  wine — 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket! 

Perchance  you  will  take  a  frisk  off  to  the  Baths — 
Where  some  to  their  heads  hold  a  pistol  and  cock  it ; 

But  still  mind  the  warning,  wherever  your  paths. 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

And  Friendships  you  '11  swear  most  eternal  of  pacts. 
Change  rings,  and  give  hair  to  be  put  in  a  locket ; 

But  still,  in  the  most  sentimental  of  acts. 

Take  care  of  your  pocket ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 

In  short,  if  you  visit  that  stream  or  its  shore, 
Still  keep  at  your  elbow  one  caution  to  knock  it, 

And  where  Schinderhannes  was  Robber  of  yore. 

Take  care  of  your  pocliet ! — take  care  of  your  pocket ! 


LOVE  LANGUAGE  OF  A  MERRY  YOUXG  SOLDIER. 


379 


LOVE  LANGUAGE  OF  A  IklERRY  YOUXG  SOLDIER. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN". 


"  Ach,  Gretcben,  meia  taubchen." 


0  Gretel,  nij  Dove,  mj  heart's  Trumpet. 
Mj  Cannon,  mj  Big  Drum,  and  also  mj  jSIusket. 
0  hear  me,  my  mild  little  Dove, 
In  your  still  little  room. 

Your  portrait,  my  Gretel,  is  always  on  guard. 
Is  always  attentive  to  Love's  parole  and  watchword; 
Your  picture  is  always  going  the  rounds, 
My  Gretel,  I  call  at  every  hour  ! 

My  heart's  Knapsack  is  always  full  of  you  ; 
My  looks,  they  are  quartered  with  you ; 
And  when  I  l^ite  off  the  top  end  of  a  cartridge, 
Then  I  think  that  I  give  you  a  kiss. 

Y"ou  alone  are  my  Word  of  Command  and  orders. 
Yea,  my  Right-face,  Left-face,  Brown  Tommy,  and  wine, 
And  at  the  word  of  command  '•  Shoulder  Arms  !'' 
Then  I  think  you  say  "  Take  me  in  your  arms." 

Your  eyes  sparkle  like  a  Battery, 
Yea,  they  wound  like  Bombs  and  Grenades ; 
As  black  as  Gunpowder  is  your  hair, 
Y'our  hand  as  white  Parading  breeches  ! 

Yes,  you  are  the  Match  and  I  am  the  Cannon ; 
Have  pity,  my  love,  and  give  quarter, 
And  give  the  word  of  command  "  Wheel  round 
Into  my  heart's  Barrack  Y'ard." 


380 


AXACREOXTIC. 


ANACREOXTIC, 


FOR   THE  NKW  TEAR. 


Come,  fill  up  the  Bowl,  for  if  ever  the  glass 

Found  a  proper  excuse  or  fit  season. 
For  toasts  to  be  honored,  or  pledges  to  pass. 

Sure,  this  hour  brings  an  exquisite  reason : 
For,  hark !  the  last  chime  of  the  dial  has  ceased, 

And  Old  Time,  who  has  leisure  to  cozen, 
Had  finished  the  months,  like  the  flasks  at  a  feast, 

Is  preparing  to  tap  a  fresh  dozen ! 

Hip  I  Hip  !  and  Hurrah  ! 

Then  fill,  all  je  Happy  and  Free,  unto  whom 

The  past  Year  has  been  pleasant  and  sunny ; 
Its  months  each  as  sweet  as  if  made  of  the  bloom 

Of  the  thyme  whence  the  bee  gathers  honey — 
Days  ushered  by  dew-drops,  instead  of  the  tears. 

Maybe,  wrung  from  some  wretcheder  cousin — 
Then  fill,  and  with  gratitude  join  in  the  cheers 

That  triumphantly  hail  a  fresh  dozen  ! 

Hip  !  Hip  !  and  Hurrah  ! 

And  ye,  who  have  met  with  Adversity's  blast, 

And  been  bowed  to  the  earth  by  its  fury ; 
To  whom  the  Twelve  ]\Ionths,  that  have  recently  passed, 

Were  as  harsh  as  a  prejudiced  jury — 
Still,  fill  to  the  future  !  and  join  in  our  chime, 

The  regrets  of  remembrance  to  cozen. 
And  having  obtained  a  Kew  Trial  of  Time, 

Shout,  in  hopes  of  a  kindlier  dozen  ! 

Hip  !  Hip  !  and  Hurrah  ! 


MORE   HULLAIIBALOO. 


381 


I^IORE   HULLAHBALOO. 

"  Loud  as  from  numbers  without  number." — Milton. 

"  You  may  Jo  it  cstemporo,  for  it  '3  nothing  but  roaring." — Quince. 

Amoxgst  the  great  inventions  of  this  age, 

Which  every  other  century  surpasses, 
Is  one — just  now  the  rage — 

Called  "  Singing  for  all  Classes" — 
That  is,  for  all  the  British  millions, 
And  billions, 
And  quadrillions, 
Not  to  name  QidntiUans, 
That  now,  alas  !  have  no  more  car  than  asses, 
To  learn  to  warble  like  the  birds  in  June, 
In  time  and  tune, 
Correct  as  clocks,  and  musical  as  glasses  ! 

In  fact,  a  sort  of  plan, 
Including  gentleman  as  well  as  yokel, 

Public  or  private  man, 
To  call  out  a  militia — only  Vocal, 

Instead  of  Local, 
And  not  designed  for  military  follies, 

But  keeping  still  within  the  civil  border, 
To  form  Avith  mouths  m  open  order, 
And  sing  in  volleys. 
Whether  this  grand  Harmonic  scheme 
Will  ever  get  beyond  a  dream. 

And  tend  to  British  happiness  and  glory, 
Maybe  no,  and  maybe  yes. 
Is  more  than  I  pretend  to  guess — 
However,  here 's  my  story. 


382  MORE   HULLAHBALOO. 

In  one  of  those  small,  quiet  streets, 

TMiere  business  retreats 
To  shun  the  daily  bustle  and  the  noise 

The  shoppy  Strand  enjoys, 
But  Law,  Joint  Companies,  and  Life  Assurance, 

Find  past  endurance — 
Is  one  of  those  back  streets,  to  Peace  so  dear. 

The  other  day,  a  ragged  wight. 

Began  to  sing  with  all  his  might, 

"  I  have  a  silent  sorroio  here!"' 
The  place  was  lonely,  not  a  creature  stirred, 
Except  some  little  dingy  bird ; 
Or  vagrant  cur  that  sniffed  along, 
Indifferent  to  the  Son  of  Song ; 
No  truant  errand-boy,  or  doctor's  lad, 
No  idle  Filch,  or  lounging  cad, 

No  pots  encumbered  with  diurnal  beer, 
No  printer's  devil  with  an  author's  proof, 
Or  housemaid  on  an  errand  far  aloof, 

Lino-ered  the  tattered  ]Melodist  to  hear — 
Who  yet,  confound  him  !  bawled  as  loud 
As  if  he  had  to  charm  a  London  crowd, 

Singing  beside  the  public  way, 
Accompanied- — instead  of  violin, 
Flute,  or  piano,  chiming  in — 

By  rumbling  cab,  and  omnibus,  and  dray, 
A  van  with  iron  bars  to  play  staccato, 

Or  engine  ohligato — 
In  short,  without  one  instrument  vehicular 
(Not  even  a  track,  to  be  particular), 

There  stood  the  rogue  and  roared. 

Unasked  and  unencored. 
Enough  to  split  the  organs  called  auricular ! 


MORE    nULLAHBALOO.  383 

Heard  iu  that  quiet  place, 

Devoted  to  a  still  and  studious  race, 

The  noise  was  quite  appalling  ! 
To  seek  a  fitting  simile  and  spin  it, 

Appropriate  to  his  calling, 
Hjs  voice  had  all  Lablache's  body  in  it; 
But  oh  !  the  scientific  tone  it  lacked. 

And  was  in  fact, 
Only  a  fortj-boatswain  power  of  bawling  ! 

'Twas  said,  indeed,  for  want  of  vocal  nouSj 

The  stage  had  banished  him,  when  he  attempted  it, 
For  tho'  his  voice  completely  filled  the  house, 
It  also  emptied  it. 
However,  there  he  stood 
Vociferous — a  ragged  don  ! 
And  with  his  iron  pipes  laid  on 

A  row  to  all  the  neighborhood. 

In  vain  were  sashes  closed, 

And  doors  against  the  persevering  Stentor, 
Though  l3rick,  and  glass,  and  solid  oak  opposed, 

Th'  intruding  voice  would  enter, 
Heedless  of  ceremonial  or  decorum. 
Den,  ofiice,  parlor,  study,  and  sanctorum ; 
Where  clients  and  attorneys,  rogues  and  fools. 
Ladies,  and  masters  who  attended  schools, 
Clerks,  agents,  all  provided  with  their  tools, 
"Were  sitting  upon  sofas,  chairs,  and  stools, 
With  shelves,  pianos,  tables,  desks,  before  'em- 
How  it  did  bore  'em  ! 

Louder,  and  louder  still 
The  fellow  sang  with  horrible  goodwill, 


384  MOKE   HULLAHBALOO. 

Curses  both  loud  and  deep,  his  sole  gratuities, 
From  scribes  bewildered  making  many  a  flaw, 
In  deeds  of  law 
Thej  had  to  draw  ; 
With  di'eadml  incongruities 
In  posting  ledgers,  making  up  accounts 
To  large  amounts, 
Or  casting  up  annuities — 
Stunned  by  that  voice,  so  loud  and  hoarse, 
Aaiainst  whose  overwhelming  force 
No  invoice  stood  a  chance,  of  course  ! 

The  Actuary  "pshawed  and  '•  pished," 
And  knit  his  calculating  brows,  and  wished 
The  singer  '•  a  bad  life"' — a  mental  murther  ! 
The  Clerk,  resentful  of  a  blot  and  blunder, 
Yvlshed  the  musician  further, 
Poles  distant — and  no  wonder ! 
For  Law  and  Harmony  tend  far  asunder — 
The  lady  could  not  keep  her  temper  calm, 
Because  the  sinner  did  not  sing  a  psalm — 
The  Fiddler  in  the  very  same  position 
As  Hogarth"  s  chafed  musician 
(Such  prints  require  but  cursory  reminders) 
Came  and  made  faces  at  the  wretch  beneath, 
And  wishing  for  his  foe  between  his  teeth, 
(Like  all  impatient  elves 
That  spite  themselves) 
Ground  his  own  grinders. 

But  still  with  unrelenting  note, 

Though  not  a  copper  came  of  it,  in  verity, 
The  horrid  fellow  with  the  ragged  coat, 
And  iron  throat, 


MORE    HULLAHBALOO. 

Heedless  of  present  honor  and  prosperity, 
Sang  like  a  Poet  singing  for  posterity, 
In  penniless  reliance — 
And,  sure,  the  most  immortal  Man  of  Rhyme 
Never  set  Time 
More  thoroughly  at  defiance ! 

From  room  to  room,  from  floor  to  floor, 

From  Number  One  to  Twenty-four, 

The  Nuisance  bellowed,  till  all  patience  lost, 

Down  came  Miss  Frost, 
Expostulating  at  her  open  door — 
"  Peace,  monster,  peace  ! 
"Where  is  the  New  Police  ? 
I  vow  I  cannot  work,  or  read,  or  pray, 

Don't  stand  there  bawling,  fellow,  don't ! 
You  really  send  my  serious  thoughts  astray, 
Do — there 's  a  dear  good  man — do,  go  away." 
Says  he,  "I  won't  !'*' 

The  spinster  pulled  her  door  to  with  a  slam, 
That  sounded  like  a  wooden  d — n, 
For  so  some  moral  people,  strickly  loth 
To  swear  in  words,  however  up, 
"Will  crash  a  curse  in  setting  down  a  cup, 
Or  through  a  doorpost  vent  a  banging  oath — 
In  fact,  this  sort  of  physical  transgression 
Is  really  no  more  difiicult  to  trace 
Than  in  a  given  face 
A  very  bad  expression. 

However  in  she  went 
Leaving  the  subject  of  her  discontent 
To  Mr.  Jones's  Clerk  at  Number  Ten ; 

IT 


=J 


386 


MORE   HULLAHBALOO. 


Who,  throwing  up  the  sash, 
With  ax3cents  rash, 
Thus  hailed  the  most  vociferous  of  men  : 
*'  Come,  come,  I  say  old  fellow,  stop  your  chant! 
I  cannot  write  a  sentence — no  one  can't ! 
So  just  pack  up  your  trumps, 
And  stu'  your  stumps — " 
Says  he,  "  I  shan't !" 

Down  went  the  sash 
As  if  devoted  to  "  eternal  smash" 
(Another  illustration 
Of  acted  imprecation). 
While  close  at  hand,  uncomfortably  near. 

The  independent  voice,  so  loud  and  strong, 

And  clanging  like  a  gong. 
Roared  out  again  the  everlasting  song, 
*•  I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here." 

The  thing  was  hard  to  stand ! 

The  Music-master  could  not  stand  it — 
But  rushed  forth  with  fiddle-stick  in  hand, 

As  savage  as  a  bandit, 
Made  up  directly  to  the  tattered  man. 
And  thus  in  broken  sentences  began — 
But  playing  first  a  prelude  of  grimaces, 

Twisting  his  features  to  the  strangest  shapes. 
So  that  to  guess  his  subject  from  his  faces. 

He  meant  to  give  a  lecture  upon  apes. 

"  Com — com — I  say ! 

You  go  away  ! 
Into  two  parts  my  head  you  split — 
My  fiddle  cannot  hear  himself  a  bit, 

When  I  do  play — 


MORE    HULLAHBALOO.  387 

You  have  no  bis'ncss  in  a  place  so  still ! 
Can  you  not  come  another  day?" 
Says  he—"  I  will." 

"  No  —no — you  scream  and  bawl ! 
You  must  not  come  at  all ! 
You  have  no  rights,  by  rights,  to  beg — 
You  have  not  one  off  leg — 

You  ought  to  work — you  have  not  some  complaint — . 
You  are  not  cripple  in  your  back  or  bones — 
Your  voice  is  strong  enough  to  break  some  stones — " 
Says  he—"  It  am't." 

"  I  say  you  ought  to  labor ! 
You  are  in  a  young  case, 
You  have  not  sixty  years  upon  your  face. 

To  come  and  beg  your  neighbor ! 
And  discompose  his  music  with  a  noise. 
More  worse  than  twenty  boys — 
Look  what  a  street  it  is  for  quiet ! 
No  cart  to  make  a  riot, 

No  coach,  no  horses,  no  postilion. 
If  you  will  sing,  I  say,  it  is  not  just 
To  sing  so  loud." — Says  he,  'I  must  ! 

I'm  SINGING   FOR    THE    MILLION!" 


388  ODE   TO   THE    PRINTER'S   DEVIL. 


ODE  TO  THE  PRINTER'S  DEVIL 

WHO   BROUGHT  ME   A  PROOF   TO  BE   CORRECTED,    AND   "WHO    FELL    ASLEEP 
WHILE   IT   WAS  UNDERGOING   CORRECTION:     BEING  AN  ODE  FOUNDED 

ON  fact! 

"  Fallen  Cherub  1" — Milton's  Paeadibe  Lost. 

Oh  bright  and  blessed  hour  ; — 

The  Devil 's  asleep  ! — I  see  his  little  lashes 

Lying  in  sable  o'er  his  sable  cheek ; 

Closed  are  his  wicked  little  window  sashes, 

And  tranced  is  Evil's  power  ! 

The  world  seems  hushed  and  dreaming  out-a-doors, 

Spirits  but  speak  ; 
And  the  heart  echoes,  while  the  Devil  snores. 

Sleep,  Baby  of  the  damned  ! 

Sleep,  when  no  press  of  trouble  standeth  by ! 

Black  wanderer  amid  the  wandering, 

How  quiet  is  thine  eye  ! 
Strange  are  thy  very  small  pernicious  dreams — 
With  shades  of  printers  crammed. 
And  pica,  double  pica,  on  the  wing  ! 
Or  in  cold  sheets  thy  sprite  perchance  is  flying 

The  world  about — 
Dying — and  yet,  not  like  the  Devil  dying — 

Dele, — the  Evil  out ! 

Before  sweet  sleep  drew  down 

The  blinds  upon  thy  Day  c^*  Martin  eyes. 


ODE   TO   THE   PRINTER'S   DEVIL.  389 

Thou  did'st  let  slip  thy  slip  of  mischief  on  me, 

"With  weary,  weary  sighs  ; 

And  then,  outworn  with  demoning  o"er  town, 

Oblivion  won  thee  ! 
Best  of  compositors  !  thou  didst  compose 
Thy  decent  little  wicked  self,  and  go 
A  Devil-cruiser  round  the  shores  of  sleep — 
I  hear  thee  fathom  many  a  slumber-deep, 

In  the  waves  of  woe ; 

Dropping  thy  lids  of  lead 

To  sound  the  dead ! 

Heaven  forgive  me  !     I 

Have  wicked  schemes  about  thee,  wicked  one ; 

And  in  my  scheming,  sigh 

And  stagger  under  a  gigantic  thought ; 

'■'  TMiat  if  I  run  my  pen  mto  thine  eye. 

And  put  thee  out  ? 

Killing  the  Devil  will  be  a  noble  deed, 

A  deed  to  snatch  perdition  from  mankind — 

To  make  the  Methodist's  a  stingless  creed — 

To  root  out  terror  from  the  Brewer's  mind — 

And  break  the  bondage  which  the  Printer  presses — 

To  change  the  fate  of  Lawyers — 
Confirm  the  Parson's  holy  sinecure — 
Make  worthless  sin's  approaches — 
To  justify  the  bringing  up  addresses 
To  me,  in  hackney  coaches. 
From  operative  Sawyers !" 

"  To  murder  thee'' — 
Methiuks — "  will  never  harm  my  precious  head" — 
For  what  can  chance  me,  when  the  Devil  is  dead  ? 


390  A    GOOD    DIRECTIOX. 

But  wlien  I  look  on  tlij  serene  repose, 
Hear  the  small  Satan  dying  through  thy  nose, 
My  thoughts  become  less  dangerous  and  more  deep ; 
I  can  but  wish  thee  everlasting  sleep ! 

Sleep  free  from  dreams 
Of  type,  and  mk,  and  press,  and  dabbing-ball — 

Sleep  free  from  all 
That  would  make  shadowy,  devilish  slumber  darker, 
Sleep  free  from  Mr.  Baldwin's  Mr.  Parker  ! 

Oh  !  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell,  black  bit  of  breathing  sin  !  Farewell, 
Tiny  remembrancer  of  a  Printer's  Hell ! 

Young  thing  of  darkness,  seeming 
A  small,  poor  type  of  wickedness  set  up  ! 

Full  is  thy  little  cup 
Of  misery  in  the  waking  world  !     So  dreaming 
Perchance  may  now  nndemomze  thy  fate 
And  bear  thee,  Black-boy,  to  a  whiter  state  ! 
Yet  mortal  evil  is,  than  thine,  more  high  ; — 
Thou  art  vpr'ight  in  sleep  ;  men  sleep — and  lie  I 
And  from  thy  lids  to  me  a  moral  peeps. 
For  I  correct  my  errors — while  the  Devil  sleeps! 


A  GOOD  DIRECTION. 

A  CERTAIN  gentleman,  whose  yellow  cheek 
Proclaimed  he  had  not  been  in  living  quite 

An  Anchorite — 
Indeed,  he  scarcely  ever  knew  a  well  day  j 
At  last,  by  friends'  advice,  was  led  to  seek 
A.  surgeon  of  great  note — named  Aberfeldie. 


TO 


*****  391 


A  very  famous  Author  upon  Diet, 
Who,  better  starred  than  Alchemists  of  old, 
By  dint  of  turning  mercury  to  gold, 
Had  settled  at  Lis  country  house  in  quiet. 

Our  Patient,  after  some  impatient  rambles 
Thro"  Enfield  roads,  and  Enfield  lanes  of  brambles, 
Ai  last,  to  make  inquiry  had  the  nous — 
'•Here,  my  good  man, 
Just  tell  me  if  you  can, 
Pray  ^vhich  is  ^Mr.  Aberfeldie's  house  ?" 
The  man  thus  stopped — perusing  for  a  ^hile 
The  yellow  visage  of  the  man  of  bile. 
At  last  made  answer,  vrith  a  broadish  grin : 
"Why,  turn  to  right— and  left— and  right  agin, 
The  road's  direct— you  cannot  fail  to  go  it." 

'•  But  stop  !  my  woithy  fellow  ! — one  word  more — 
From  other  houses  how  am  I  to  know  it  I 

'  How !— whv  vou  "11  see  blue  pillars  at  the  door  !" 


TO     *     *     *     ^     =" 

•mTH   A   FLASK   OF   EHrST:   WATEE. 

The  old  Catholic  City  was  still 

In  the  Minster  the  vespers  were  sung, 
And,  re-echoed  in  cadences  shrill, 

The  last  call  of  the  trumpet  had  rung  ; 
^Miile  across  the  broad  stream  of  the  Ehine, 

The  full  :Moon  cast  a  silvery  zone  ; 
And,  methought,  as  I  gazed  on  its  shine, 

'•Surely,  that  is  the  Eau  de  Cologne." 


392  soxxET. 

I  inquired  the  place  of  its  source, 

If  it  ran  to  the  east  or  the  west ; 
But  my  heart  took  a  note  of  its  course, 

That  it  flowed  towards  Her  I  love  best — 
That  it  flowed  towards  Her  I  love  best, 

Like  those  wandering  thoughts  of  my  own, 
And  the  fancy  such  sweetness  possessed, 

That  the  Rhine  seemed  all  Eau  de  Cologne  ! 


Allegory — A  moral  Tehicle. — Dictioxakt. 

I  HAD  a  Gig-Horse,  and  I  called  him  Pleasure, 

Because  on  Sundays,  for  a  little  jaunt. 
He  was  so  fast  and  showy,  quite  a  treasure  ; 

Although  he  sometimes  kicked,  and  shied  aslant. 
I  had  a  Chaise,  and  christened  it  Enjoyment, 

With  yellow  body,  and  the  wheels  of  red. 
Because  't  was  only  used  for  one  employment, 

Namely,  to  go  wherever  Pleasure  led. 
I  had  a  wife,  her  nickname  was  Delight : 

A  son  called  Frolic,  who  was  never  still : 
Alas  !  how  often  dark  succeeds  to  bright  ? 

Delight  was  thrown,  and  Frolic  had  a  spill. 
Enjoyment  was  upset  and  shattered  quite. 

And  Pleasure  fell  a  splitter  on  Paine' s  Hill ! 


ANSWER   TO   A   LADY.  393 


SONNET  TO  VAUXHALL. 

"The  English  Garden." — Masox. 

The  cold  transparent  ham  is  on  my  fork — 

It  hardly  rains — and  hark  the  bell ! — ding-dingle — 
A^yay !    Three  thousand  feet  at  gravel  work, 

Mocking  a  Vauxhall  shower ! — Married  and  Single 
Crush — rush ; — Soaked  Silks  Avith  wet  white  Satin  mingle. 

Hengler  !  Madame  !  round  whom  all  bright  sparks  lurk. 
Calls  audibly  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pringle 

To  study  the  Sumblime,  &c. — (vide  Burke) 
All  Noses  are  upturned  ! — Wish — ish  ! — On  high 

The  rocket  rushes — trails — just  steals  in  sight — 
Then  droops  and  melts  in  bubbles  of  blue  light — 

And  Darkness  reigns — Then  balls  flare  up  and  die — 
Wheels  whiz — smack  crackers — serpents  twist — and  then 

Back  to  the  cold  transparent  ham  again  ! 


ANSWER 

TO  A  LADY  WHO  REQUESTED  THE  AUTHOR  TO  WRITE  SOME  VERSES  1^! 
,HER  ALBUM,  DECLARATORY  OF  WHAT  HE  LIKED  AND  WHAT  HE  DIS- 
LIKED. 

You  bid  me  mention  what  I  like, 

And,  gaily  smiling,  little  guess 
How  deeply  may  that  question  strike 

The  chords  of  solemn  thankfulness. 

I  like  my  friends,  my  children,  wife — 
The  home  they  make  so  blessed  a  spot ; 

I  like  my  fortune — calling — life — 
In  every  thing  I  like  my  lot  ; 
17* 


394  SONNET. 

And  feeling  thus,  my  heart 's  imbued 
With  never-ceasing  gratitude. 

What  I  dislike,  you  next  demand. 

A  puzzling  query^ — for  in  me 
Nought  that  proceeds  from  Nature's  hand 

Awakens  an  antipathy. 

But  what  I  like  the  least  are  those 
Who  nourish  an  unthankful  mind, 

Quick  to  discern  imagined  woes, 
To  all  their  real  blessings  blind, 

For  that  is  double  want  of  love, 

To  man  below,  and  God  above. 


SONNET. 

TO   A   SCOTCH   GIRL,    -n-ASHIXG   LIXEN   AFTER   HER   COUNTRY   FASHION. 

Well  done  and  wetly,  thou  Fair  Maid  of  Perth, 
Thou  makest  a  washing  picture  well  deserving 
The  pen  and  pencilling  of  Washington  Ir\dng  : 

Like  dripping  Naiad,  pearly  from  her  birth, 

Dashing  about  the  water  of  the  Firth, 
To  cleanse  the  calico  of  Mrs.  Skirving, 
And  never  from  thy  dance  of  duty  swerving 

As  there  were  nothing  else  than  dirt  on  earth  ! 

Yet  what  is  thy  reward  ?     Nay,  do  not  start ! 
I  do  not  mean  to  give  thee  a  new  damper. 

But  while  thou  fillest  this  industrious  part 

Of  washer,  wearer,  mangier,  presser,  stamper. 

Deserving  better  character — thou  art 

What  Bodkin  would  but  call — "  a  common  tramper." 


ODES  Ax\D  ADDRESSES 


TO 


GREAT   PEOPLE 


'•CATCHING     ALL     THE    ODDITIES,     THE    WHIMSIES,    THE    ABSURDITIES,     AND     THB 
LITTLENESSES  OF   CONSCIOUS   GREATNESS   BY   THE   WAV  " 

Citisen  of  ike  World. 


PREFACE  TO  THE   THIRD  EDITION. 


From  the  kindness  with  which  this  httle  volume  has  been  received,  the 
Authors  have  determined  uj^on  presenting  to  the  Public  "more  last  Bax- 
terish  words ;"  and  the  Reader  will  be  pleased  therefore  to  consider  this 
rather  as  a  Preface  or  Advertisement  to  the  volume  to  come,  than  a  third 
Address  in  prose,  explanatory  or  recommendatory  of  the  present  portion 
of  the  Work  It  is  agamst  etiquette  to  mtroduce  one  gentleman  to 
another  thrice  ;  and  it  must  be  confessed,  that  if  these  few  sentences  were 
to  be  billeted  upon  the  first  volume,  the  Public  might  overlook  the  Odes, 
but  would  have  great  reason  to  complain  of  the  Addresses. 

So  many  Great  Men  stand  over,  like  the  correspondents  to  a  periodical, 
■  that  they  must  be  "  continued  m  our  next."  These  are  certainly  bad 
times  for  paying  debts;  but  all  persons  having  any  claims  upon  the 
Authors,  may  rest  assured,  that  they  will  ultimately  be  paid  in  full. 

No  material  alterations  have  been  made  in  this  third  Edition — with  the 
exception  of  the  introduction  of  a  few  new  commas,  which  the  lovers  of 
punctuation  will  immediately  detect  and  duly  appreciate ; — and  the  omis- 
sion of  the  three  puns,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  all  friends  and  reviewers, 
were  detrimental  to  the  correct  humor  of  the  pubUcation, 


ODES   AND    ADDRESSES.' 


ODE  TO   MR.  GRAHAM. 

THE    AERON'AUT. 

"Fp  with  me! — up  ^vith  me  into  the  sky  I" 

■WoBDSwoKxn — on  a  Lark  t 

Dear  Graham,  whilst  the  busj  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

Their  meaner  flights  pursue, 
Let  wi  cast  off  the  foolish  ties 
That  bind  us  to  the  earth,  and  rise 

And  take  a  bird's-eye  view  I — 

A  few  more  whiffs  of  my  segar 
And  then,  in  Fancy's  airy  car, 

Have  with  thee  for  the  skies  : — 
How  oft  this  fragrant  smoke  upcurled 
Hath  borne  me  from  this  little  world, 

And  all  that  in  it  lies  ! — 

Away  I — away  ! — the  bubble  fills — 
Farewell  to  earth  and  all  its  hills  ! — 

TTe  seem  to  cut  the  wind ! — 
So  high  we  mount,  so  swift  we  go, 
The  chimney  tops  are  far  below, 

The  Eade's  left  behind!— 


)98  ODE   TO    MR.    GRAHAM. 

Ah  me  !  my  brain  begins  to  swim  ! — 
The  world  is  growing  rather  dim ; 

The  steeples  and  the  trees — 
My  wife  is  getting  very  small ! 
I  cannot  see  my  babe  at  all ! — 

The  DoUond,  if  you  please  ! 

Do,  Graham,  let  me  have  a  quiz, 
Lord  !  what  a  Lilliput  it  is, 

That  little  world  of  Mogg's ! — 
Are  those  the  London  Docks  ? — that  channel, 
The  mighty  Thames  ? — a  proper  kennel 

For  that  small  Isle  of  Dogs ! — 

What  is  that  seeming  tea-urn  there  ? 
That  fairy  dome,  St.  Paul's  ! — I  swear, 

Wren  must  have  been  a  Wren ! — 
And  that  small  stripe  ? — it  cannot  be 
The  City  Eoad  ! — Good  lack  !  to  see 

The  little  ways  of  men ! 

Little,  indeed  ! — my  eyeballs  ache 
To  find  a  turnpike. — I  must  take 

Their  tolls  upon  my  trust ! — 
And  where  is  mortal  labor  gone  ? 
Look,  Graham,  for  a  little  stone 

INIac  Adamized  to  dust ! 

Look  at  the  horses  ! — less  than  flies ! — 
Oh,  what  a  waste  it  was  of  sighs 

To  wish  to  be  a  Mayor ! 
What  is  the  honor  ? — none  at  all, 
One's  honor  must  be  very  small 

For  such  a  civic  chair ! — . 


ODE   TO    MR.    GRAHAM. 

And  there  *s  Guildhall !— "tis  far  aloof— 
Methiiiks,  I  foncy  through  the  roof 

Its  little  guardian  Gogs, 
Like  penny  dolls— a  tiny  show  !— 
-^Yell—I  must  say  they  "re  ruled  below 

By  very  little  logs  ! — 

Oh !  Graham,  how  the  upper  air 
Alters  the  standards  of  compare ; 

One  of  our  silken  flags 
Would  cover  London  all  about — 
Nay,  then— let's  even  empty  out 

Another  brace  of  bags  ! 

Now  for  a  glass  of  bright  Champagne 
Above  the  clouds  !— Come,  let  us  drain 

A  bumper  as  we  go ! — 
But  hold  '.—for  God's  sake  do  not  cant 
The  cork  away— unless  you  want 

To  brain  your  friends  below. 

Think  !  what  a  mob  of  little  men 
Are  crawling  just  within  our  ken, 

Like  mites  upon  a  cheese  I — 
Pshaw  '.—how  the  foolish  sight  rebukes 
Ambitious  thoughts  !— can  there  be  Dukes 

Of  Gloster  such  as  these  !— 

Oh  !  what  is  glory  ? — what  is  fame  ? 
Hark  to  the  little  mob's  acclaim, 

'T  is  nothing  but  a  hum  1— 
A  few  near  gnats  would  trump  as  loud 
As  all  the  shouting  of  a  crowd 

That  has  so  far  to  come ! — 


S99 


400  ODE    TO    MR.    GRAHAM. 

Well — they  are  wise  that  choose  the  near, 
A  few  small  buzzards  in  the  ear, 

To  organs  ages  hence ! — 
Ah  me  !  how  distance  touches  all ; 
It  makes  the  true  look  rather  small. 

But  murders  poor  pretence. 

"  The  world  recedes ! — it  disappears  I 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes — my  ears 

With  buzzing  noises  ring  !" — 
A  fig  for  Southey's  Laureat  lore ! — - 
What 's  Rogers  here? — Who  cares  for  Moore 

That  hears  the  Angels  sing ! — 

A  fig  for  earth,  and  all  its  minions  ! — 
We  are  above  the  world's  opinions, 

Graham  !  we  '11  have  our  own ! — 
Look  what  a  vantage  height  we've  got — 
Now do  you  think  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Is  such  a  Great  Unknown  ? 

Speak  up  ! — or  hath  he  hid  his  name 
To  crawl  thro'  ' '  subways' '  unto  fame, 

Like  Williams  of  Cornhill? — 
Speak  up,  my  lad  ! — when  men  run  small 
We  '11  show  v\^hat  's  little  in  them  all, 

Receive  it  how  they  will ! — 

Think  now  of  Irving  ! — shall  he  preach 
The  princes  down — shall  he  impeach 

The  potent  and  the  rich, 
Merely  on  ethic  stilts — and  I 
Not  moralize  at  two  miles  high 

The  true  didactic  pitch  ! 


ODE    TO   MR.    GRAUAM.  401 

Come : — ^ivliat  cV  ye  think  of  Jeflfrey,  sir  ? 
Is  GifforJ  such  a  Gulliver 

In  Lilliput's  Review, 
That  like  Colossus  he  should  stride 
Certain  small  brazen  inches  wide 

For  poets  to  pass  through  ? 

Look  down  !  the  world  is  but  a  spot. 
Now  say — Is  Blackwood's  low  or  not, 

For  all  the  Scottish  tone  ? 
It  shall  not  weigh  us  here — not  where 
The  sandy  bui-den's  lost  in  air — 

Our  lading — where  is  "t  flown  ? 

Now — like  you  Croly's  verse  indeed — 
In  heaven — where  one  cannot  read 

The  "Warren"  on  a  wall? 
What  think  you  here  of  that  man's  fame  ? 
Tho*  Jerdan  magnified  his  name. 

To  me  'tis  very  small ! 

And,  truly,  is  there  such  a  spell 
In  those  three  letters,  L.  E.  L., 

To  witch  a  world  with  sons;  ? 
On  clouds  the  Byron  did  not  sit, 
Yet  dared  on  Shakspeare's  head  to  spit, 

And  say  the  Avorld  was  wrong ! 

And  shall  not  we  ?     Let 's  thmk  aloud  ! 
Thus  being  couched  upon  a  cloud, 

Graham,  we  "11  have  our  eyes  ! 
We  felt  the  great  when  we  were  less, 
But  we  '11  retort  on  littleness 

Now  Vt'o  are  in  the  skies. 


402  ODE   TO   MR.    GRAHAM. 

0  Graham,  Graham  !  how  I  blame 
The  bastard  blush — the  petty  shame 

That  used  to  fret  me  quite — 
The  little  sores  I  covered  then, 
No  sores  on  earth,  nor  sorrows  when 

The  world  is  out  of  sight ! 

My  name  is  Tims. — I  am  the  man 
That  North's  unseen,  diminished  clan 
So  scurvilj  abused ! 

1  am  the  very  P.  A.  Z. 

The  London  Lion's  small  pin's  head 
So  often  hath  refused  ! 

Campbell — (you  cannot  see  him  here) — 
Hath  scorned  my  lays  : — do  his  appear 

Such  great  eggs  from  the  sky  ? — 
And  Longman,  and  his  lengthy  Co. 
Long,  only,  in  a  little  Row, 

Have  thrust  my  poems  by  ! 

What  else  ? — I  'm  poor,  and  much  beset 
With  damned  small  duns — that  is — in  debt 

Some  grains  of  golden  dust ! 
But  only  worth,  above,  is  worth. — 
What 's  all  the  credit  of  the  earth  ! 

An  nich  of  cloth  on  trust ! 

What 's  Rothschild  here,  that  wealthy  man  ! 
Nay,  worlds  of  wealth? — Oh,  if  you  can 

Spy  out — the  Golden  Ball! 
Sure  as  we  rose,  all  money  sank  : 
What 's  gold  or  silver  now  ? — the  Bank 

Is  gone — the  'Change  and  all ! 


ODE    TO    MR.    GRAHAM.  403 

What  "s  all  the  ground-rent  of  the  globe  ? — 
Oh,  Graham,  it  would  worry  Job 

To  hear  its  landlords  prate ! 
But  after  this  survey,  I  think 
I  '11  ne'er  be  bullied  more,  nor  shrink 

From  men  of  large  estate  ! 

And  less,  still  less,  Avill  I  submit 
To  poor  mean  acres'  worth  of  wit — 

I  that  have  heaven's  span — 
I  that  like  Shakspeare's  self  may  dream 
Beyond  the  very  clouds,  and  seem 

An  Universal  Man  ! 

Mark,  Graham,  mark  those  gorgeous  crowds ! 
Like  Birds  of  Paradise  the  clouds 

Are  winging  on  the  wind  ! 
But  what  is  grander  than  their  range? 
More  hvalj  than  their  sun-set  change  ? — 

The  free  creative  mind  I 

Well !  the  Adults'  School 's  in  the  air  ! 
The  greatest  men  are  lessoned  there 

As  Avell  as  the  Lessee ! 
Oh  could  Earth's  EUistons  thus  small 
Behold  the  greatest  stage  of  all, 

How  humbled  they  would  be  ! 

"  Oh  would  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  'em, 
To  see  themselves  as  others  see  'em," 

'T would  much  abate  their  fuss! 
If  they  could  think  that  from  the  skies 
They  are  as  little  in  our  eyes 

As  they  can  think  of  us  ! 


404  ODE   TO    MR.    GRAHAM. 

Of  US  ?  are  we  gone  out  of  sight  ? 
Lessened  !  diminished  !  vanished  quite  I 

Lost  to  the  tiny  town  ! 
Beyond  the  Eagle's  ken — the  grope 
Of  Dolland's  longest  telescope  ! 

Graham !  we  're  going  down  ! 

Ah  me  !  I  've  touched  a  string  that  opes 
The  airy  valve  ! — the  gas  elopes — 

Down  goes  our  bright  Balloon  ! — 
Farewell  the  skies  !  the  clouds  !  I  smell 
The  lower  world  !  Graham,  farewell, 

Man  of  the  silken  moon ! 

The  earth  is  close  !  the  City  nears — 
Like  a  burnt  paper  it  appears, 

Studded  with  tiny  sparks ! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  distant  rout 
Of  coaches  rumbling  all  about — 

We  're  close  above  the  Parks  ! 

I  hear  the  watchmen  on  their  beats, 
Hawking  the  hour  about  the  streets. 

Lord  !  what  a  cruel  jar 
It  is  upon  the  earth  to  light ! 
Well — there 's  the  finish  of  our  flight ! 

I  've  smoked  my  last  segar  ! 


ODE 


TO   MR.  M'ADAM.* 


"  Let  us  take  to  the  road  1" — Beggab's  Opera. 


M'Adam,  hail ! 
Hail,  Roadian  !  hail,  Colossus  !  who  dost  stand 
Striding  ten  thousand  turnpikes  on  the  land ! 

Oh  universal  Leveler  !  all  hail  ! 
To  thee,  a  good,  yet  stony-hearted  man, 

The  kindest  one,  and  yet  the  flintiest  going — 
To  thee — how  much  for  thy  commodious  plan, 

Lanark  Reformer  of  the  Ruts,  is  Owing ! 
The  Bristol  mail 
Gliding  o'er  ways,  hitherto  deemed  invincible, 

"When  carrying  Patriots  now  shall  never  fail 
Those  of  the  most  "  unshaken  public  principle." 
Hail  to  thee,  Scot  of  Scots  ! 

Thou  northern  light,  amid  those  heavy  men  I 
Foe  to  Stonehenge,  yet  friend  to  all  beside. 
Thou  scatterest  flints  and  favors  far  and  wide, 
From  palaces  to  cots  ; — 

Dispenser  of  coagulated  good ! 

Distributor  of  granite  and  of  food  ! 
Long  may  thy  fame  its  even  path  march  on 

E'en  when  thy  sons  are  dead ! 
Best  benefactor !  though  thou  giv'st  a  stone 

To  those  who  ask  for  bread .' 


406  ODE   TO    MR.    M-ADAM. 

Thy  fii'st  great  trial  in  this  mightj  town 
Was,  if  I  rightly  recollect,  upon 
That  gentle  hill  which  goeth 
Down  from  ••  the  County'"  to  the  Palace  gate. 

And,  like  a  river,  thanks  to  thee,  now  iioweth 
Past  the  Old  Horticultural  Society — 
The  chemist  Cobb"s,  the  house  of  Howell  and  James, 
"VMiere  ladies  play  high  shawl  and  satm  games — 

A  little  Hell  of  lace  ! 
And  past  the  Athenaeum,  made  of  late, 

Severs  a  sweet  variety 
Of  millmers  and  booksellers  who  grace 

Waterloo  Place, 
^Making  division,  the  ]Muse  fears  and  guesses, 
'Twixt  Mr.  Rivmgton's  and  Mr.  Hessey's. 
Thou  stood'st  thy  trial,  Mac  !  and  shaved  the  road 
From  Barber  Beaumont's  to  the  King's  abode 
So  well;  that  paviors  threw  their  rammers  by, 
Let  down  their  tucked  shirt-sleeves,  and  with  a  sigh 
Prepared  themselves,  poor  souls,  to  chip  or  die  I 

Next,  from  the  palace  to  the  prison,  thou 

Didst  go,  the  highway's  watchman,  to  thy  beat — 
Preventing  though  the  rattling  in  the  street, 
Yet  kicking  up  a  row 
Upon  the  stones — ah  !  truly  watchman-like, 
Encouraging  thy  victims  all  to  strike. 

To  further  thy  own  purpose,  Adam,  daily ; — 
Thou  hast  smoothed,  alas,  the  path  to  the  Old  Bailey ! 
And  to  the  stony  bowers 
Of  Newgate,  to  encourage  the  approach, 
By  caravan  or  coach — 
Hast  strewed  the  way  with  flints  as  soft  as  flowers. 


r"=^ 


ODE   TO    MR.    M'ADAM.  407 

"SYho  shall  dispute  tbj  name  ! 
Insculpt  ill  stone  in  every  street, 

We  soon  shall  greet 
Thy  trodden  down,  jet  all  unconquered  fame  ! 
Where'er  we  take,  even  at  this  time,  our  way. 
Nought  see  we,  but  mankind  in  open  air, 
Hammering  thy  fVime,  as  Chantrey  would  not  dare  ; — 

And  with  a  patient  care 
Chipping  thy  immortality  all  day  ! 
Demosthenes,  of  old — that  rare  old  man — 
Prophetically  foUou-ed,  Mac  !  thy  plan  : — 

For  he,  we  know, 

(History  says  so,) 
Put  pebbles  in  his  mouth  when  he  would  speak 

The  smoothest  Greek ! 

It  is  "impossible,  and  cannot  be," 
But  that  thy  genius  hath. 
Besides  the  turnpike,  many  another  path 

Trod,  to  arrive  at  popularity, 
O'er  Pegasus,  perchance,  thou  hast  throAvn  a  thigh, 
Nor  ridden  a  roadster  only ;  mighty  ]Mac  ! 
And  "faith  I  'd  swear,  when  on  that  Avinged  hack. 
Thou  hast  observed  the  highways  in  the  sky  ! 
Is  the  path  up  Parnassus  rough  and  steep. 

And  •'  hard  to  climb,"  as  Dr.  B.  would  say? 
Dost  think  it  best  for  Sons  of  Song  to  keep 

The  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way  ?  (see  Gray.) 
What  line  of  road  should  poets  take  to  bring 

Themselves  unto  those  waters,  loved  the  first ! — 
Those  waters  which  can  wet  a  man  to  sing ! 

Which,  like  thy  fiime,  "  from  granite  basins  burst. 

Leap  into  life,  and,  sparkling,  woo  the  thii'st?" 


408  ODE    TO    MR.    M-ADAM. 

That  thou  "rt  a  proseP;  even  thj  birth-place  might 
Vouchsafe ; — and  Mr.  Cadell  may.  God  wot, 
Have  paid  thee  manj  a  pound  for  many  a  blot — 
Cadell  "s  a  wayward  wight ! 
Although  no  Walter,  still  thou  art  a  Scot, 
And  I  can  throw,  I  think,  a  little  lio-ht 
Upon  some  works  thou  hast  written  for  the  town — 
And  published,  like  a  Lilliput  Unknown  ! 

■'•  Highways  and  Byeways,'"  is  thy  book,  no  doubt, 
(One  Avhole  edition  "s  out.) 
And  next,  for  it  is  fail- 
That  Fame, 
Seeing  her  children,  should  confess  she  had  'em  : — 
"  Some  Passages  from  the  life  of  Adam  Blair"' — 

(Blair  is  a  Scottish  name.) 
What  are  they,  but  thy  own  good  roads,  M^Adam? 

0 !  indefatigable  laborer 
In  the  paths  of  men  !  when  thou  shalt  die,  ''t  will  be 
A  mark  of  thy  surpassing  industry. 

That  of  the  monument,  which  men  shall  rear 
Over  thy  most  inestimable  bone, 
Thou  didst  thy  very  self  lay  the  fii'st  stone  I — 
Of  a  right  ancient  line  thou  comest — through 
Each  crook  and  turn  we  trace  the  unbroken  clue. 
Until  we  see  thy  sii-e  before  our  eyes — 
Rolling  his  gravel  walks  in  Paradise ! 
But  he,  our  great  Mac  Parent,  erred,  and  ne'er 

Have  our  walks  since  been  fair  1 
Yet  Time,  who,  like  the  merchant,  lives  on  "Change, 
For  ever  varying,  through  his  varying  range, 

Time  maketh  all  thincrs  even  ! 
In  this  strange  world,  tm-ning  beneath  high  heaven  ! 


ODE   TO    MR.    M'ADAM.  400 

He  hath  redeemed  the  Adams,  and  contrived — 

(How  are  Time's  wonders  hived !) 
In  pity  to  mankind  and  to  befriend  'em — 
(Time  is  above  all  praise) 
That  he,  who  first  did  make  our  evil  ways^ 
Reborn  in  Scotland,  should  be  first  to  mend  'em! 

18 


A  FRIENDLY   ADDRESS 

TO  MRS.  FRY,  IN  NEWGATE.^' 

"  Sermons  in  stones." — As  tott  Like  It. 
"Out!  out!  damned  spot!" — Macbeth. 

I  LIKE  you,  Mrs.  Fry  !  I  like  your  name  ! 

It  speaks  the  very  warmth  you  feel  in  pressing 
In  daily  act  round  Charity's  great  flame — 

I  like  the  crisp  Browne  way  you  have  of  dressing 
Good  Mrs.  Fry !  I  like  the  placid  claim 

You  make  to  Christianity — professing 
Love,  and  good  woi^ks — of  course  you  buy  of  Barton, 
Beside  the  young  fry' s  booksellers,  Friend  Darton  ! 

I  like  good  Mrs.  Fry,  your  brethren  mute — 
Those  serious,  solemn  gentlemen  that  sport — 

I  should  have  said,  that  2vear,  the  sober  suit 

Shaped  like  a  court  dress — but  for  heaven's  court. 

I  like  your  sisters  too — sweet  Rachel's  fruit — 
Protestant  nuns !  I  like  their  stiff  support 

Of  virtue — and  I  like  to  see  them  clad 

With  such  a  difference — just  like  good  from  bad ! 

I  like  the  sober  colors — not  the  west ; 

Those  gaudy  manufactures  of  the  rainbow — 


A   FraENDLY    ADDRESS   TO    MRS.    FRY.  411 

Green,  orange,  crimson,  purple,  violet — 

In  which  the  fair,  the  flirting,  and  the  vain,  go — 

The  others  are  a  chaste,  severer  set, 

In  which  the  good,  the  pious,  and  the  plain,  go — 

They  're  moral  standards,  to  know  Chri.stians  hy — 

In  short,  they  are  your  colors,  Mrs.  Fry  ! 

As  for  the  naughty  tinges  of  the  prism — 

Crimson's  the  cruel  uniform  of  war — 
Blue — hue  of  brimstone !  minds  no  catechism  ; 

And  green  is  young  and  gay — not  noted  for 
Goodness,  or  gravity,  or  quietism, 

Till  it  is  saddened  down  to  tea-green,  or 
Olive — and  purple 's  given  to  wine,  I  guess  ; 
And  yelloAY  is  a  convict  by  its  dress  ! 

They  're  all  the  devil's  liveries,  that  men 

And  women  wear  in  servitude  to  sin — 
But  how  v>-ill  they  come  oif,  poor  motleys,  when 

Sin's  wages  are  paid  down,  and  they  stand  in  ' 
The  Evil  presence  !  You  and  I  know,  then 

How  all  the  party  colors  will  begin 
To  part — the  Pittite  hues  will  sadden  there, 
Whereas  the  Foxite  shades  will  all  show  fair ! 

Witness  their  goodly  labors  one  by  one  ! 

Russet  makes  garments  for  the  needy  poor-^ 
Dove-color  preaches  love  to  all — and  dun 

Calls  every  day  at  Charity's  street-door — 
Brown  studies  Scripture,  and  bids  women  shuu 

All  gaudy  furnishing — olive  doth  pour 
Oil  into  wounds  :  and  drab  and  slate  supply 
Scholar  and  book  in  Newgate,  Mrs.  Fry  ! 


412  A    FRIEXDLY    ADDRESS    TO    MRS.    FRY. 

Well !  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  discommend 

The  gratis,  charitable,  jail-endeavor  ! 
When  all  persuasions  in  your  praises  blend — 

The  Methodist's  creed  and  cry  are.  Fry  forever  ! 
No — I  will  be  your  friend — and,  like  a  friend. 

Point  out  your  very  worst  defect — Nav,  never 
Start  at  that  word  !   But  I  iniist  ask  you  why 
You  keep  your  school  in  Newgate,  Mrs.  Fry  ? 

Too  well  I  know  the  price  our  mother  Eve 

Paid  for  her  schoolmg  :  but  must  all  her  daughters 

Commit  a  petty  larceny,  and  thieve — 

Pay  down  a  crime  for  '•  entrance''  to  your  '■•  quarter s?'"' 

Your  classes  may  increase,  but  I  must  grieve 
Over  your  pupils  at  their  bread  and  waters  ! 

Oh,  tho'  it  cost  you  rent — (and  rooms  run  high) 

Keep  your  school  out  of  Newgate,  Mrs.  Fry ! 

0  save  the  vulgar  soul  before  it 's  spoiled  ! 

Set  up  your  mounted  sign  without  the  gate — 
And  there  inform  the  mind  before  'tis  soiled  ! 

'Tis  sorry  writing  on  a  greasy  slate  ! 
Nay,  if  you  would  not  have  your  labors  foiled, 

Take  it  inclining  towards  a  virtuous  state, 
Not  prostrate  and  laid  flat — else,  woman  meek  ! 
The  upright  pencil  Avill  ])ut  hop  and  shriek ! 

Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  drain 
The  evil  spirit  from  the  heart  it  preys  in — 

To  bring  sobriety  to  life  again. 

Choked  with  the  vile  Anacreontic  raisin — 

To  wash  Black  Betty  when  her  black's  ingrain — 
To  stick  a  moral  lacquer  on  ^loll  Brazen, 

Of  Suky  Tawdry's  habits  to  deprive  her ; 

To  tame  the  wild-fowl  ways  of  Jenny  Diver ! 


A   FRIENDLY   ADDRESS   TO   MRS.    FRY.  413 

Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  teach 
Miss  Nancy  DaAvson  on  her  bed  of  straw — 

To  make  Long  Sal  sew  up  the  endless  breach 

She  made  in  manners — to  write  heaven's  own  law 

On  hearts  of  granite. — Nay,  how  hard  to  preach, 
In  cells,  that  are  not  memory's — to  draw 

The  moral  thread,  thro'  the  immoral  eye 

Of  blunt  Whitechai^el  natures,  Mrs.  Fry ! 

In  vain  you  teach  them  baby-work  within : 

'Tis  but  a  clumsy  botchery  of  crime : 
'Tis  but  a  tedious  darning  of  old  sin — 

Come  out  yourself,  and  stitch  up  souls  in  time — 
It  is  too  late  for  scouring  to  begin 

TMien  virtue 's  ravelled  out,  when  all  the  prime 
Is  worn  away,  and  nothing  sound  remains ; 
You  "11  fret  the  fabric  out  before  the  stains  I 

I  like  your  chocolate,  good  Mistress  Fry ! 

I  like  your  cookery  in  every  way ; 
I  like  your  shrove-tide  service  and  supply ; 

I  like  to  hear  your  sweet  Pandeans  play  ; 
I  like  the  pity  in  your  full-brimmed  eye ; 

I  like  your  carriage,  and  your  silken  gray, 
Your  dove-like  habits,  and  your  silent  preaxjhing ; 
But  I  don't  like  your  Newgatory  teaching. 

Come  out  of  Newgate,  Mrs.  Fry  !     Repair 
xibroad,  and  find  your  pupils  in  the  streets. 

0,  come  abroad  into  the  wholesome  air, 

And  take  your  moral  place,  before  Sin  seats 

Her  wicked  self  in  the  Professor's  chair. 

Suppose  some  morals  raw  !  the  true  receipt 's 

To  dress  them  in  the  pan,  but  do  not  try 

To  cook  them  in  the  fii'e,  good  ^Irs.  Fry ! 


■114  A     FRIENDLY    ADDRESS    TO    MRS.    FRY. 

Put  on  jour  decent  bonnet,  and  come  out ! 

Good  lack !  the  ancients  did  not  set  up  schools 
In  jail^3ut  at  the  Porch  !  hinting,  no  doubt, 

That  Vice  should  have  a  lesson  in  the  rules 
Before  't  Tvas  whipt  by  law. — O  come  about, 

Good  Mrs.  Frj !  and  set  up  forms  and  stools 
All  down  the  Old  Bailej,  and  thro'  Newgate-street, 
But  not  in  Mr.  "VVontner's  proper  seat ! 

Teach  Lady  Barrjmore,  if,  teaching,  you 

That  peerless  Peeress  can  absolve  from  dolor ; 

Teach  her  it  is  not  virtue  to  pursue 
Ruin  of  blue,  or  any  other  color ; 

Teach  her  it  is  not  Virtue's  crown  to  rue, 

JMonth  after  month,  the  unpaid  drunken  dollar ; 

Teach  her  that  "  flooring  Charleys"  is  a  game 

Unworthy  one  that  bears  a  Christian  name. 

0  come  and  teach  our  children — that  ar'n't  ours — 
That  heaven's  straight  pathway  is  a  narrow  way, 

Not  Broad  St.  Giles's,  where  fierce  Sin  devours 
Children,  like  Time — or  rather  they  both  prey 

On  youth  together — meanwhile  Newgate  low'rs 
Even  like  a  black  cloud  at  the  close  of  day, 

To  shut  them  out  fi'om  any  more  blue  sky : 

Think  of  these  hopeless  wretches,  Mrs.  Fry ! 

You  are  not  nice — go  into  their  retreats, 

And  make  them  Quakers,  if  you  will. — 'Twere  best 
They  wore  straight  collars,  and  their  shirts  sans  pleats  ; 

That  they  had  hats  u^ith  brims — that  they  were  drest 
In  garbs  without  lappels — ^chan  shame  the  streets 

With  so  much  raggedness. — You  may  invest 
Much  cash  this  way — but  it  will  cost  its  price, 
To  give  a  good,  round,  real  cheque  to  Vice ! 


A    FRIENDLY    ADDRESS    TO    MRS.    FRY.  41- 

In  brief — Oh  teach  the  child  its  moral  rote, 

Xot  in  the  way  from  which  "t  will  not  depart — 

But  out — out — out !     Oh,  bid  it  walk  remote  ! 
And  if  the  skies  are  closed  against  the  smart. 

Even  let  him  wear  the  single-breasted  coat, 
For  that  ensureth  singleness  of  heart. — 

Do  what  jou  will,  his  every  want  supply, 

Keep  him — but  out  of  Newgate,  ^Irs.  Fry ! 


ODE 

TO   EICHAED  MAETIX,  ESQUIEE, 

M.P.    FOB    GAL-^-AT.* 
"Jiartm,  in  this,  has  proved  himself  a  very  good  Mau!" — Boxiaxa. 

How  many  sing  of  vars, 

Of  Greek  and  Trojan  jars — 

The  butcheries  of  men  1 
The  Muse  hath  a  ••  Perpetual  Ruby  Pen !"' 
Dabbling  with  heroes  and  the  blood  they  spill  : 

But  no  one  sings  the  man 

That,  like  a  pelican. 
Nourishes  Pity  with  his  tender  Bill! 

Thou  Wilberforce  of  hacks  ! 

Of  whites  as  well  as  blacks, 

Pyebald  and  dapple  grey, 

Chestnut  and  bay — 

No  poet's  eulogy  thy  name  adorns  !• 

But  oxen,  from  the  fens, 

Sheep — in  their  pens. 
Praise  thee,  and  red  cows  with  their  winding  horns  ! 
Thou  art  sung  on  brutal  pipes  ! 

Drovers  may  curse  thee, 

Knackers  asperse  thee, 


ODE    TO    RICHARD    MARTIN,    ESQ. 


417 


And  sly  M.P.'s  bestow  their  cruel  -wipes  ; 
But  the  old  horse  neighs  thee, 
And  zebras  praise  thee, 
Asses,  I  mean — that  have  as  many  stripes  ! 

Hast  thou  not  taught  the  Drover  to  forbear, 
In  Smithfield's  muddy,  murderous,  vile  environ — 
Staying  his  lifted  bludgeon  in  the  air ! 
Bullocks  don't  wear 
Oxide  of  iron ! 
The  cruel  Jarvy  thou  hast  summoned  oft, 
Enforcing  mercy  on  the  coarse  Yahoo, 
That  thought  his  horse  the  courser  of  the  two — 

Whilst  Swift  smiled  down  aloft ! — 
0  worthy  pair !  for  this,  when  ye  inhabit 
Bodies  of  birds — (if  so  the  spirit  shifts 
From  flesh  to  feather) — when  the  clown  uplifts 
His  hands  against  the  sparrows  nest,  to  grab  it — 
He  shall  not  harm  the  ]\Iartins  and  the  Swifts! 

Ah !  when  Dean  Swift  was  quick,  how  he  enhanced 
The  horse  ! — and  humbled  biped  man  like  Plato ! 
But  now  he  "s  dead,  the  charger  is  mischanced — 
Gone  backward  in  the  world — and  not  advanced — 

Remember  Cato! 
Swift  was  the  horse's  champion — not  the  King's 

Whom  Southey  sings, 

Mounted  on  Pegasus — would  he  were  thrown ! 

He  '11  wear  that  ancient  hackney  to  the  bone, 

Like  a  mere  clothes-horse  airing  royal  things ! 

Ah  well-a-day  !   the  ancients  did  not  use 

Their  steeds  so  cruelly  ! — let  it  debar  men 

From  wonted  rowelling  and  whip's  abuse — 

Look  at  the  ancients'  Muse  ! 

Look  at  their  Carmen  ! 
18* 


418 


ODE   TO    RICHARD   MARTIN,    ESQ. 


0,  Martin  !  how  thine  eye — 
That  one  would  think  had  put  aside  its  lashes — 

That  can't  bear  gashes 
Thro'  any  horse's  side,  must  ache  to  spy 
That  horrid  window  fronting  Fetter-lane — 
For  there  's  a  nag  the  crows  have  picked  for  victual, 
Or  some  man  painted  in  a  bloody  vein — 
Gods  !  is  there  no  Horse-spital ! 
That  such  raw  shows  must  sicken  the  humane ! 
Sure  Mr.  Whittle 
Loves  thee  but  little. 
To  let  that  poor  horse  linger  in  his  /jane  ! 

0  l3uikl  a  Brookes's  Theatre  for  horses  ! 
0  wipe  away  the  national  reproach — 

And  find  a  decent  Vulture  for  their  corses  ! 
And  in  thy  funeral  track 
Four  sorry  steeds  shall  follow  in  each  coach  ! 

Steeds  that  confess  "the  luxury  of  ?ro/"' 
True  mourning  steeds,  in  no  extempore  black, 

And  many  a  wretched  hack 
Shall  sorrow  for  thee— sore  vrith  kick  and  blow 
And  bloody  gash — it  is  the  Indian  knack — 
(Save  that  the  savage  is  his  ovrn  tormentor) — 
Banting  shall  weep  too  in  his  sable  scarf — 
The  biped  woe  the  quadruped  shall  enter, 

And  ISIan  and  Horse  go  half  and  half, 
As  if  their  griefs  met  in  a  common  Centaur  ! 


ODE 
TO  THE  GREAT  UXKN0WI7. 

"  0  breathe  not  his  name !" — Mooee. 

Thou  Great  Unknown ! 
I  do  not  mean  Eternity,  nor  Death, 

That  vast  incog ! 
For  I  suppose  thou  hast  a  living  breath, 
Howbeit  we  know  not  from  whose  lungs  'tis  blown, 

Thoa  man  of  fug  ! 
Parent  of  many  children — child  of  none ! 

Nobody's  son  I 
Nobody's  daughter — but  a  parent  still ! 
Still  but  an  ostrich  parent  of  a  batch 
Of  orphan  eggs — left  to  the  world  to  hatch. 

Superlative  Nil  I 
A  vox  and  nothing  more — yet  not  Vauxhall ; 
A  head  in  papers,  yet  without  a  curl ! 

Not  the  Invisible  Girl ! 
No  hand — but  a  hand-writing  on  a  wall — 

A  popular  nonentity, 
Still  called  the  same — without  identity  ! 

A  lai-k,  heard  out  of  sight — ■ 
A  nothing  shined  upon — in^^sibly  bright, 

"  Dark  with  excess  of  light!" 


420  ODE   TO    THE    GREAT   UNKIfOWN. 

Constable's  literary  John-a-nokes — 
The  real  Scottish  wizard — and  not  which, 
Nobodj — in  a  niche  ; 
Every  one's  hoax ! 
Maybe  Sir  "Walter  Scott— 
Perhaps  not ! 
Why  dost  thou  so  conceal  and  puzzle  curious  folks  ? 

Thou — whom  the  second-sighted  never  saw, 
The  Master  Fiction  of  fictitious  history  ! 

Chief  Xong  tong  paw ! 
No  mister  in  the  world — and  yet  all  mystery ! 
The  '-tricksy  spirit"  of  a  Scotch  Cock  Lane — 
A  novel  Junius  puzzling  the  world's  brain — 
A  man  of  Magic — yet  no  talisman  ! 
A  man  of  clair  obscure — not  he  o'  the  moon  ! 

A  star — at  noon. 
A  non-descriptus  in  a  caravan, 
A  private — of  no  corps — a  northern  light 
In  a  dark  lantern — Bogie  in  a  crape — 
A  figure — but  no  shape  ; 
A  vizor — and  no  knight : 
The  real  abstract  hero  of  the  ao-e  ; 
The  staple  Stranger  of  the  stage  ; 
A  Some  One  made  in  every  man's  presumption. 
Frankenstein's  monster — but  instinct  with  gumption ; 
Another  strange  state  captive  in  the  north, 
Constable-guarded  in  an  iron  mask — 
Still  let  me  ask. 
Hast  thou  no  silver-platter, 
No  door-plate,  or  no  card — or  some  such  matter, 
To  scrawl  a  name  upon,  and  then  cast  forth  ? 


ODE  TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN.         421 

Thou  Scottish  Barmecide,  feeding  the  hunger 
Of  Curiosity  with  airy  gammon  ! 
Thou  mystery-monger, 
Dealing  it  out  like  middle  cut  of  salmon, 
This  people  buy  and  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it ; 
(Howbeit  that  puzzle  never  hurts  the  sale  of  it ;) 
Thou  chief  of  authors  mystic  and  abstractical, 
That  lay  their  proper  bodies  on  the  shelf — 
Keeping  thyself  so  truly  to  thyself. 

Thou  Zimmerman  made  practical ! 
Thou  secret  fountain  of  a  Scottish  style, 

That,  like  the  Nile, 
Hideth  its  source  wherever  it  is  bred, 

But  still  keeps  disemboguing 

(Not  disembroguing) 
Thro'  such  broad  sandy  mouths  without  a  head ! 
Thou  disembodied  author — not  yet  dead — 
The  whole  world's  literary  Absentee ! 

Ah  !  wherefore  hast  thou  fled. 
Thou  learned  Nemo — wise  to  a  degree, 

Anonymous  L.  L.  D. ! 

Thou  nameless  captain  of  the  nameless  gang 
That  do — and  inquests  cannot  say  who  did  it ! 

Wert  thou  at  Mrs.  Donatty's  death-pang  ? 
Hast  thou  made  gravy  of  Weare's  watch — or  hid  it? 
Hast  thou  a  Blue-Beard  chamber  ?    Heaven  forbid  it ! 

I  should  be  very  loth  to  see  thee  hang ! 
I  hope  thou  hast  an  alibi  well  planned, 
An  innocent,  altho'  an  ink-black  hand. 

Tho'  thou  hast  newly  turned  thy  private  bolt  on 
The  curiosity  of  all  invaders — 

I  hope  thou  art  merely  closeted  with  Colton, 


422  ODE    TO    THE    GREAT   UNKNOWN. 

^Mio  knows  a  little  of  the  Holy  Laiul^ 

Writing  thj  next  new  novel — The  Crusaders  ! 

Perhaps  thou  wert  even  born 
To  be  Unknown. — Perhaps  hung,  some  foggj  mom, 
At  Captain  Coram' s  charitable  wicket, 

Pinned  to  a  ticket 
That  Fate  had  made  illegible,  foreseeing 
The  future  great  unmentionable  being. — 

Perhaps  thou  hast  ridden 
A  scholar  poor  on  St.  Augustine's  Back, 
Like  Chatterton,  and  found  a  dustj  pack 

Of  Rowlej  novels  in  an  old  chest  hidden ; 
A  little  hoard  of  clever  simulation, 

That  took  the  town — and  Constable  has  bidden 
Some  hundred  pounds  for  a  continuation — 
To  keep  and  clothe  thee  in  genteel  starvation. 

I  liked  thy  "Waverlej — first  of  thy  breeding  ; 

I  liked  its  modest  '"sixty  years  ago,"' 
As  if  it  was  not  meant  for  ases'  readings. 

I  dont  like  Ivanhoe, 
Tho'  Dymoke  does — it  makes  him  think  of  chattering 

In  ii'on  overalls  before  the  king. 
Secure  from  battering,  to  ladies  flattering. 

Tuning  his  challenge  to  the  gauntlet's  ring — 
Oh  better  far  than  all  that  anvil  clano; 

It  was  to  hear  thee  touch  the  famous  strino- 
Of  Robin  Hood's  tough  bow  and  make  it  twang, 
Rousing  him  up,  all  verdant,  with  his  clan, 
Like  Sagittarian  Pan  ! 

I  like  Guy  }*Iannering — but  not  that  sham  son 
Of  Brown. — I  like  that  literary  Sampson, 


ODE  TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN.  423 

Nine-tenths  a  Dyer,  with  a  smack  of  Person. 
I  like  Dirk  Ilatteraick,  that  rough  sea  Orson 

That  slew  the  Guager  : 
And  Dandie  Dinmont,  like  old  Ursa  Major ; 
And  [Nlerrilies,  young  Bertram's  old  defender, 

That  Scottish  Witch  of  Endor, 
That  doomed  thy  fame.   She  was  the  Witch.  I  take  it, 
To  tell  a  crreat  man's  fortune — or  to  make  it ! 


I  like  thy  Antiquary.     With  his  fit  on, 

He  makes  me  think  of  Mr.  Britton, 
AMio  has — or  had — within  his  garden  wall, 
A  miniature  Stone  Henge,  so  A'ery  small 

The  sparrows  find  it  difiicult  to  sit  on  ; 
And  Dousterswivel,  like  Poyais'  M"Gregor  ; 
And  Edie  Ochiltree,  that  old  Blue  Beggar, 

Painted  so  cleverly, 
I  think  thou  surely  knowest  Mrs.  Beverly  ! 
I  like  thy  Barber — him  that  fii'ed  the  Beacon — 
But  that 's  a  tender  subject  now  to  speak  on! 

I  like  long-armed  Rob  Roy. — His  very  channs 
Fashioned  him  for  renown  ! — In  sad  sincerity, 

The  man  that  robs  or  writes  must  have  long  arms, 
If  he  "s  to  hand  his  deeds  down  to  posterity  ! 
Witness  Miss  Biffin's  posthumous  prosperity, 
Her  poor  brown  crumpled  mummy  (nothing  more) 

Bearing  the  name  she  bore, 
A  thing  Time's  tooth  is  tempted  to  destroy ! 
But  Roys  can  never  die — why  else,  in  verity, 
Is  Paris  echoing  with  ••  Vive  le  Roy  !" 

Av.  Rob  shall  live  a<z;ain.  and  deathless  Di 


424  ODE    TO    THE    GREAT    TXKXOWN. 

Vernon,  of  course,  shall  often  live  again — 
WMlst  there  's  a  stone  in  Newgate,  or  a  chain, 

Who  can  pass  bj 
Nor  feel  the  Thief's  in  prison  and  at  hand? 
There  be  Old  Bailey  Jarvjs  on  the  stand  ! 

I  like  thj  Landlord's  Tales  ! — I  like  that  Idol 
Of  love  and  Lammermoor — the  blue-eyed  maid 
That  led  to  church  the  mounted  cavalcade, 

And  then  pulled  up  with  such  a  bloody  bridal  ! 
Throwing  equestrian  Hymen  on  his  haunches — 
I  like  the  family  (not  silver)  branches 
That  hold  the  tapers 

To  light  the  serious  legend  of  Montrose. — 
I  like  ]M-Aulay's  second-sighted  vapors, 
As  if  he  could  not  walk  or  talk  alone. 
Without  the  De\al — or  the  Great  Unknown — 

Dalgetty  is  the  dearest  of  Ducrows  ! 

I  like  St.  Leonard's  Lily — cbenched  with  dew  .' 
I  like  thy  Vision  of  the  Covenanters, 
That  bloody-minded  Graham  shot  and  slew. 
I  like  the  battle  lost  and  won ; 
The  hurly  burly  's  bravely  done, 
The  warlike  gallops  and  the  warlike  canters  ! 
I  like  that  girded  chieftain  of  the  ranters, 
Ready  to  preach  down  heathens,  or  to  grapple, 
With  one  eye  on  his  sword, 
And  one  upon  the  Word — 
How  he  would  cram  the  Caledonian  Chapel ! 
I  like  stern  Claverhouse,  though  he  doth  dapple 
His  raven  steed  with  blood  of  many  a  corse — 
I  like  dear  ]\Irs.  Headrigg,  that  unravels 


ODE  TO  THE  GREAT  UXKNOAVN.  425 

Her  texts  of  Scrijiture  on  a  trotting  horse — 
She  is  so  like  Rae  Wilson  when  he  travels ! 

I  like  thj  Kenil-worth — but  I  'm  not  going 

To  take  a  Retrospective  Re-Review 
Of  all  thy  dainty  novels — merely  showing 

The  old  familiar  faces  of  a  few, 
The  question  to  renew, 
How  thou  canst  leave  such  deeds  without  a  name, 
Forego  the  unclaimed  dividends  of  fame, 
Forego  the  smiles  of  literary  houris — 
Mid  Lothian's  trump,  and  Fife's  shrill  note  of  praise, 

And  all  the  Carse  of  Gowi-ie's, 
^Vhen  thou  might'st  have  thy  statue  in  Cromarty — 

"Or  see  thy  image  on  Italian  trays, 
Betwixt  Queen  Caroline  and  Buonaparte, 

Be  painted  by  the  Titian  of  R.  A.'s, 
Or  vie  in  sign-boards  with  the  Royal  Guelph  ! 

P'rhaps  have  thy  bustset  cheek  by  jowl  withHomer's, 
P'rhaps  send  out  plaster  proxies  of  thyself 

To  other  Englands  Avith  Australian  roamers — 
ISIayhap,  in  Literary  Owhyhee 
Displace  the  native  wooden  gods,  or  be 
The  China-Lar  of  a  Canadian  shelf  ? 

It  is  not  modesty  that  bids  thee  hide — 
She  never  wastes  her  1>lushes  out  of  sight : 
It  is  not  to  innate 
The  world's  decision,  for  thy  fame  is  tried — 
And  tliy  fair  deeds  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 
Even  royal  heads  are  with  thy  readers  reckoned — 
From  men  in  trencher  caps  to  trencher  scholars 
In  crimson  collai's, 


426         ODE  TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN. 

And  learned  Serjeants  in  the  Forty- Second ! 
Whither  bj  land  or  sea  art  thou  not  beckoned  ?~ 
Mayhap  exported  from  the  Frith  of  Forth, 
Defying  distance  and  its  dim  control ; 

Perhaps  read  about  Stromness,  and  reckoned  worth 
A  brace  of  Miltons  for  capacious  soul — 

Perhaps  studied  in  the  whalers,  further  north, 
And  set  above  ten  Shakspeares  near  the  pole ! 

Oh,  when  thou  writest  by  Aladdin's  lamp, 
With  such  a  giant  genius  at  command,  ■ 

For  ever  at  thy  stamp, 
To  fill  thy  treasury  from  Fairy  Land, 
When  haply  thou  might' st  ask  the  pearly  hand 
Of  some  great  British  Vizier's  eldest  daughter, 

Tho'  princes  sought  her. 
And  lead  her  in  procession  hymeneal. 
Oh,  why  dost  thou  remain  a  Beau  Ideal ! 
Why  stay,  a  ghost,  on  the  Lethean  Wharf, 
Enveloped  in  Scotch  mist  and  gloomy  fogs  ? 
Why,  but  because  thou  art  some  puny  Dwarf, 
Some  hopeless  Imp,  like  Riquet  Avith  the  Tuft, 
Fearing,  for  all  thy  wit,  to  be  rebuffed. 
Or  bullied  by  our  great  reviewing  Gogs  ? 

What  in  this  masking  age 
Maketh  Unknowns  so  many  and  so  shy  ? 

What  but  the  critic's  page  ? 
One  hath  a  cast,  he  hides  from  the  workVs  eye; 
Another  hath  a  wen — he  won't  show  where ; 

A  third  has  sandy  hair, 
A  hunch  upon  his  back,  or  legs  awry. 
Things  for  a  vile  reviewer  to  espy  ! 
Another  has  a  mangel-wurzel  nose — 


ODE    TO    THE    OIIEAT    UNKNOWN.  427 

Finallj,  this  is  dimpled, 
Like  a  pale  crumpet  face,  or  that  is  pimpled, 
Things  for  a  monthly  critic  to  expose — 
Xaj,  what  is  thy  own  case — that  being  small, 
Thou  chooscst  to  be  nobody  at  all ! 

AVell,  thou  art  prudent,  with  such  puny  bones — 
E'en  like  Elshender,  the  mysterious  elf, 
That  shadowy  revelation  of  thyself — 
To  build  thee  a  small  hut  of  haunted  stones — 
For  certainly  the  first  pernicious  man 
That  ever  saw  thee,  would  quickly  draw  thee 
In  some  vile  literary  caravan — 
Shown  for  a  shilling 
Would  be  thy  killing. 
Think  of  Crachami's  miserable  span  ! 
No  tinier  frame  the  tiny  spark  could  dwell  in 

Than  there  it  fell  in — 
But  when  she  felt  herself  a  show,  she  tried 
To  shrink  from  the  world's  eye,  poor  dwarf !  and  died ! 

0  since  it  was  thy  fortune  to  be  born 
A  dwarf  on  some  Scotch  Inch,  and  then  to  flinch 
From  all  the  Gog-like  jostle  of  great  men, 

Still  with  thy  small  crow  pen 
Amuse  and  charm  thy  lonely  hours  forlorn — 
Still  Scottish  story  daintily  adorn. 

Be  still  a  shade — and  when  this  age  is  fled. 
When  we  poor  sons  and  daughters  of  reality 

Are  in  our  graves  forgotten  and  quite  dead, 
And  Time  destroys  our  mottoes  of  morality — 
The  lithographic  hand  of  Old  Mortality 
Shall  still  restore  thy  eml)lem  on  the  stone, 

A  featureless  death's  head. 
And  rob  Oblivion  ev'n  of  the  Unknown  ! 


ADDRESS 

TO    MR.    DYMOKE,' 

THE   CHAMPIOX  OF  ENGLAND. 
" Anna  Tirumque  cano!" — Yikgil. 

Mr.  Dymoke  !  Sir  Knight !  if  I  may  be  so  bold — 
(I  'm  a  poor  simple  gentleman  just  come  to  town.) 

Is  your  armor  put  by,  like  the  sheep  in  a  fold  ? — 

Is  your  gauntlet  ta'en  up,  which  you  lately  flung  down? 

Are  you — ayIio  that  day  rode  so  mailed  and  admired, 

Now  sitting  at  ease  in  a  library  chair  ? 
Have  you  sent  back  to  Astley  the  war-horse  you  hired, 

With  a  cheque  upon  Chambers  to  settle  the  fare  ? 

What's  become  of  the  cup?  Great  tin-plate  worker  ?  say? 

Cup  and  ball  is  a  game  which  some  people  deem  fiin  ! 
Oh  !   three  fjolden  balls  have  n't  lured  you  to  play 

Rather  false,  Mr.  D.,  to  all  pledges  but  one? 

How  defunct  is  the  show  that  w-as  chivalry's  mimic  ! 

The  breast-plate — the  feathers — the  gallant  array  ! 
So  fades,  so  grows  dim,  and  so  dies,  Mr.  Dymoke  ! 

The  day  of  brass  breeches  !  as  Wordsworth  would  say ! 

Perchance  in  some  village  remote,  with  a  cot, 

And  a  cow,  and  a  pig,  and  a  barn-door,  and  all ; — 

You  show  to  the  parish  that  peace  is  your  lot, 

And  plenty — tho'  absent  from  Westminster  Hall ! 


ODE    TO    MR.    DY.MOKE.  420 

And  of  course  you  turn  every  accoutrement  now 

To  its  separate  use,  that  your  wants  may  be  well  met : — 

You  toss  in  your  breast-plate  your  pancakes,  and  grow 
A  salad  of  mustard  and  cress  in  your  helmet. 

And  you  delve  the  fresh  earth  with  your  falchion,  less  bright 
Smce  hung  up  in  sloth  fi-om  its  "Westmmster  task ; — 

And  you  bake  your  own  bread  in  your  tin ;  and,  Sir  Knight, 
Instead  of  your  brow,  put  your  beer  in  the  casque  1 

How  delightful  to  sit  by  your  beans  and  your  peas. 

With  a  goblet  of  gooseberry  gallantly  clutched, 
And  chat  of  the  blood  that  had  deluged  tlie  Pleas. 

And  drenched  the  King's  Bench— if  the  glove  had  been 
touched  ! 

If  Sir  Columbine  Daniel,  with  knightly  pretensions, 

Had  snatched  your  •'•  best  doe,'"— he  "d  have  flooded  the 
floor ; — 

Nor  would  even  the  best  of  his  crafty  inventions, 

•'•  Life  Preservers,"  have  floated  him  out  of  his  gore  ! 

Oh,  you  and  yotir  horse  !   what  a  couple  was  there  ! 

The  man  and  his  backer — to  win  a  great  fight ! 
Thotigh  the  trumpet  was  loud — you  "d  an  undisturbed  air  ! 

And  the  nag  snuffed  the  feast  and  the  fray  sans  affright  1 

Yet  strange  was  the  course  which  the  good  Cato  bore 
Vrhen  he  waddled  tail-wise  with  the  cup  to  his  stall  :— 

For  though  his  departure  was  at  the  front  door. 

Still  he  went  the  back  way  out  of  Westmmster  Hall. 

Ho  went — and  't  would  puzzle  historians  to  say. 

When  they  trust  Time's  conveyance  to  carry  your  mail— 

"\^'hether  caution  or  courage  inspired  him  that  day, 
For,  though  he  retreated,  he  never  turned  tail. 


430  ODE    TO    MR.    DYMOKE. 

By  my  life,  lie 's  a  wonderful  charger  '.—The  best ! 

Though  not  for  a  Parthian  corps  '.—yet  for  you  ! — 
Distinguished  alike  at  a  fray  and  a  feast, 

What  a  Horse  for  a  grand  Retrospective  Review ! 

A\liat  a  creature  to  keep  a  hot  warrior  cool 

^Vhen  the  sun's  in  the  face,  and  the  shade's  far  aloof! 

What  a  tail-piece  for  Bewick  !— or  pyebald  for  Poole, 
To  bear  him  in  safety  from  Elliston"s  hoof! 

Well ;  hail  to  Old  Cato !  the  hero  of  scenes  ! 

May  Astley  or  age  ne'er  his  comforts  abridge ; — 
Oh,  long  may  he  munch  Amphitheatre  beans, 

W^ell  "  pent  up  in  Utica"  over  the  Bridge ! 

And  to  you,  Mr.  Dymoke,  Cribb's  rival,  I  keep 

Wishing  all  country  pleasures,  the  bravest  and  best ! 

And  oh !  when  you  come  to  the  Hummums  to  sleep, 
May  you  lie  "  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest!" 


ODE 
TO  JOSEPH  GRIMALDI,  SEXIOR.' 

"This  fellows  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool, 
And  to  do  that  weU  craves  a  kind  of  wit,"' 

Joseph  1  they  say  thou  "st  left  the  stage, 

To  toddle  down  the  hill  of  life, 
And  taste  the  flannelled  ease  of  age. 

Apart  from  pantomimic  strife — 
"Retired — (for  Young  ^vould  call  it  so) — 
The  Tvorld  shut  out"' — in  Pleasant  Row  1 

And  hast  thou  really  washed  at  last 

From  each  white  cheek  the  red  half  moon ! 

And  all  thy  public  Clownship  cast, 
To  play  the  private  Pantaloon? 

All  youth— all  ages— yet  to  be 

Shall  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee  ! 

Thou  didst  not  preach  to  make  us  wise — 
Thou  hadst  no  finger  in  our  schooling — 

Thou  didst  not  "lure  us  to  the  skies" "- 
Thy  simple,  simple  trade  was — Fooling  ! 

And  yet,  Heaven  knows !  we  could— we  can 

Much  ••  better  spare  a  l^etter  man  I"' 


432  ODE    TO    JOSEPH    GRIMALDI. 

Oh,  tad  it  pleased  the  gout  to  take 
The  reverend  Crolj  from  the  stage. 

Or  Southej,  for  our  quiet's  sake, 
Or  Mr.  Fletcher,  Cupid's  sage. 

Or,  damme  !  namby  pamby  Poole — 

Or  any  other  clown  or  fool ! 

Go,  Dibdin — all  that  bear  the  name. 
Go  Byway  Highway  man  !  go  !  go ! 

Go,  Skeffy — man  of  painted  fame, 
But  leave  thy  partner,  painted  Joe ! 

I  could  bear  Kirby  on  the  wane, 

Or  Signer  Paulo  with  a  sprain ! 

Had  Joseph  AVilfred  Parkins  made 

His  gray  hairs  scarce  in  private  peace — 

Had  "Waithman  sought  a  rural  shade — 
Or  Cobbett  ta'en  a  turnpike  lease — 

Or  Lisle  Bowles  gone  to  Balaam  Hill — 

I  think  I  could  be  cheerful  still ! 

Had  jMedwin  left  off,  to  his  praise. 
Dead  lion  kicking,  like — a  friend ! — 

Had  long,  long  Irving  gone  his  ways. 
To  muse  on  death  at  Ponder' s  End — 

Or  Lady  ISIorgan  taken  leave 

Of  Letters — still  I  might  not  grieve  ! 

But,  Joseph — every  body's  Jo ! — 
Is  gone — and  grieve  I  will  and  must ! 

As  Hamlet  did  for  Yorick,  so 

Will  I  for  thee,  (tho'  not  yet  dust,) 

And  talk  as  he  did  when  he  missed 

The  kissincr-crust  that  ho  had  kissed ! 


ODE   TO    JOSEPH    GRIMALDI. 

Ah,  where  is  now  thj  rolling  head ! 

Thy  winking,  reeling,  drunken  ejes, 
(As  old  Catullus  would  have  said,) 

Thy  oven-mouth,  that  swallowed  pies — 
Enormous  hung-er — monstrous  drouth ! 
Thy  pockets  greedy  as  thy  mouth ! 

Ah,  where  thy  ears,  so  often  cuffed ! — 
Thy  funny,  flapping,  filching  hands  ! — 

Thy  partridge  body,  always  stuffed 

With  waifs,  and  strays,  and  contrabands ! — 

Thy  foot — like  Berkeley's  Foote — for  why? 

'T  was  often  made  to  wipe  an  eye  ! 

Ah,  where  thy  legs — that  witty  pair 

For  "  great  wits  jump"—  and  so  did  they.-; 

Lord !  how  they  leaped  in  lamp-light  air  ! 
Capered — and  bounced — and  strode  away !— .' 

That  years  should  tame  the  legs — alack  I 

I  're  seen  spring  thro'  an  Almanack  ! 

But  bounds  will  have  their  bound — the  shocks 
Of  Time  will  cramp  the  nimblest  toes  ; 

And  those  that  frisked  in  silken  clocks 
May  look  to  limp  in  fleecy  hose — 

One  only — (Champion  of  the  ring) 

Could  ever  make  his  Wintei' — SjDring  ! 

And  gout,  that  owns  no  odds  between 
The  toe  of  Czar  and  toe  of  Clo^vn, 

"Will  visit — but  I  did  not  mean 
To  moralize,  though  I  am  grown 

Thus  sad— Thy  going  seemed  to  beat 

A  mufiled  drum  for  Fun's  retreat ! 
19 


433 


434  ODE    TO   JOSEPH    GRIMALDI. 

And,  may  be — "tis  no  time  to  smother 
A  sigh,  when  two  prime  wags  of  London, 

Are  gone — thou,  Joseph,  one — the  other 
A  Joe  ! — "  sic  transit  gloria  Mundenr'' 

A  third  departure  some  insist  on — 

Stage-apoplexy  threatens  Liston  I — 

Nay,  then,  let  Sleeping  Beauty  sleep 
"With  ancient  '•  Dozey'-  to  the  dregs — 

Let  Mother  Goose  wear  mourning  deep, 
And  put  a  hatchment  o'er  her  eggs ! 

Let  Farley  weep — for  ^Magics  man 

Is  gone — his  Christmas  Caliban  ! 

Let  Kemble,  Forbes,  and  "Willet  rain. 
As  tho'  they  walked  behind  thy  bier — 

For  since  thou  wilt  not  play  again. 
What  matters — if  in  heaven  or  here  ! 

Or  in  thy  grave,  or  in  thy  bed  I — 

There's  Quick,  might  just  as  well  Ije  dead! 

Oh,  how  will  thy  departure  cloud 
The  lamp-light  of  the  little  breast ! 

The  Christmas  child  will  grieve  aloud 
To  miss  his  broadest  friend  and  best — 

Poor  urchin !  what  avails  to  him 

The  cold  New  Monthly's  Ghost  of  Grimmi 

For  who  like  thee  could  ever  stride 
Some  dozen  paces  to  the  mile  I — 

The  motley,  medley  coach  provide — 
Or  like  Joe  Frankenstein  compile 

The  vegetable  man  complete  ! — 

A  proper  Cocent  Garden  feat ! 


ODE    TO    JOSEPH    GRIMALDI.  435 

Oh,  who  like  thee  could  ever  drink. 

Or  eat — swill — swallow — bolt — and  choke! 
Nod,  weep,  and  hiccup — sneeze  and  wink? — 

Thj  very  yawn  Avas  quite  a  joke  ! 
Tho'  Joseph  Junior  acts  not  ill, 
"  There 's  no  Fool  like  the  old  Fool"  still  I 

Joseph,  farewell  !  dear  funny  Joe  ! 

We  met  Avith  mirth — Ave  part  in  pain ! 
For  many  a  long,  long  year  must  go, 

Ere  Fun  can  see  thy  like  again — 
For  Nature  does  not  keep  great  stores 
Of  perfect  Clowns — that  are  not  Boors  ! 


J 


ADDRESS 

TO   SYLVA^X'S   URBAX,  ESQUIRE/ 

EDITOR   OF   THE   GEXTLEIIAX'S   MAGAZINT:. 

"Dost  thou  not  suspect  ray  rears?" 

Mccu  Ado  About  Nothin&. 

Oh  !  Mr.  Urban  !  never  must  thou  lurch 
A  sober  age  made  serious  drunk  bj  thee ; 

Hop  in  thy  pleasant  way  from  church  to  church, 
And  nurse  thy  little  bald  Biography. 

Oh,  my  Sylvanus  I  vrhat  a  heart  is  thine  ! 

And  what  a  page  attends  thee  !  Long  may  I 
Hang  in  demure  confrision  oer  each  line 

That  asks  thy  little  C|uestions  with  a  sigh  ! 

Old  tottering  years  have  nodded  to  their  falls, 
Like  pensioners  that  creep  about  and  die ; — 

But  thou,  Old  Parr  of  periodicals, 
Livest  in  monthly  immortality  I 

■jHow  sweet ! — as  Byron  of  his  infant  said — 
'•  Knowledge  of  objects""  in  thine  eye  to  trace; 

To  see  the  mild  no-meanings  of  thy  head. 
Taking  a  quiet  nap  upon  thy  face  ! 

How  dear  through  thy  Obituary  to  roam. 

And  not  a  name  of  any  name  to  catch  ! 
To  meet  tr.y  Critic-ism  walking  home. 

Averse  from  rows,  and  never  callins;  ■•  Watch  I" 


ADDRESS   TO    SYLVAXUS   VRBAX,    ESQ.  437 

Rich  is  thj  page  in  soporific  thing? — 
Composing  compositions — lulling  men — 

Faded  old  posies  of  unburied  rings — 

Confessions  dozing  from  an  opiate  pen  : — 

Lives  of  Right  Reverends  that  have  never  lived — 
Deaths  of  good  people  that  have  really  died — 

Parishioners — hatched — husbanded — and  wived, 
Bankrupts  and  Abbots  breaking  side  bj  side  ! 

The  sacred  query  —the  remote  response — 

The  march  of  serious  minds,  extremely  slow — 

The  graver's  cut  at  some  right  aged  sconce, 
Famous  for  nothing  many  years  ago  1 

B.  asks  of  C.  if  Milton  e'er  did  write 

''  Comus,"  obscured  beneath  some  Ludlow  lid;— 
And  C,  next  month,  an  answer  doth  indite, 

Informing  B.  that  Mr.  ]SIilton  did ! 

X.  sends  the  portrait  of  a  genuine  flea, 
Caught  upon  !\Iartin  Luther  years  agone  ; 

And  ]Mr.  Parkes,  of  Shrewsbury,  draws  a  bee, 
Long  dead,  that  gathered  honey  for  King  John. 

There  is  no  end  of  thee — there  is  no  end, 

Sylvanus,  of  thy  A,  B,  C.  D-merits ! 
Thou  dost,  with  alphabets,  old  walls  attend, 

And  poke  the  letters  into  holes,  like  ferrets ! 

Go  on,  Sylvanus ! — Bear  a  wary  eye, 

The  churches  cannot  yet  be  quite  run  out ! 

Some  parislies  must  yet  have  been  passed  by — 
There  's  Bullock-Smithy  has  a  church  no  doubt ! 


i_ 


438  ADDRESS   TO    SYLVANUS   URBAN,    ESQ. 

Go  on — and  close  the  eyes  of  distant  ages ! 

Nourish  the  names  of  the  undoubted  dead ! 
So  Epicures  shall  pick  thy  lobster-pages, 

Heavy  and  lively,  though  but  seldom  red. 

Go  on !  and  thrive  !   Demurest  of  odd  fellows ! 

Bottling  up  dullness  in  an  ancient  binn  ! 
Still  live  !  still  prose  !  continue  still  to  tell  us 

Old  truths !  no  strangers,  though  we  take  them  in ! 


AN    ADDRESS 
TO  THE  STEAM  WASHING  COMPANY." 

"Archer.  IIow  many  arc  tbero,  Scrub T 
Scrub.  Five  and  forty,  Sir." — Beaux  Steatagem. 
"For  shame — let  the  linen  alone  !"" — Mercy  Wives  of  'Windsob. 

Mr.  Scrub — INIr.  Slop — or  whoever  jou  be ! 

The  Cock  of  Steam  Laundries — the  head  Patentee 

Of  Associate  Cleansers — Chief  founder  and  prime 

Of  the  firm  for  the  wholesale  distilling  of  grime — 

Co-partners  and  dealers,  in  linen's  propriety — 

That  make  washing  public— and  wash  in  society — 

0  lend  me  your  ear !  if  that  ear  can  forego, 

For  a  moment,  the  music  that  bubbles  below — 

From  your  new  Surrey  Geisers  all  foaming  and  hot — 

That  soft  "  simmer  s  sang"  so  endeared  to  the  Scot  — 

If  your  hands  may  stand  still,  or  your  steam  without  danger- 

If  your  suds  will  not  cool,  and  a  mere  simple  stranger, 

Both  to  you  and  to  washing,  may  put  in  a  rub — 

0  wipe  out  your  Amazon  arms  from  the  tub — 

And  lend  me  your  ear— Let  me  modestly  plead 

For  a  race  that  your  labors  may  soon  supersede — 

For  a  race  that,  now  washing  no  living  aifords — 

Like  Grimaldi  must  leave  their  aquatic  old  boards, 

Not  with  pence  in  their  pockets  to  keep  them  at  ease, 

Not  with  bread  in  the  funds — or  investments  of  cheese — 


440         ADDRESS  TO    THE   STEAM   WASHING    COMPANY. 

But  to  droop  like  sad  willows  that  lived  by  a  stream. 

Which  the  sun  has  sucked  up  into  vapor  and  steam. 

Ah,  look  at  the  Laundress,  before  jou  begrudge 

Her  hard  daily  bread  to  that  laudable  drudge — 

"When  chanticleer  singeth  his  earliest  matins, 

She  slips  her  amphibious  feet  in  her  pattens, 

And  beginneth  her  toil  while  the  morn  is  still  gray, 

As  if  she  was  washing  the  night  into  day — 

Not  with  sleeker  or  rosier  finoicrs  Aurora 

Beginneth  to  scatter  the  dew-drops  before  her  ; 

Not  Venus  that  rose  from  the  billow  so  early, 

Looked  down  on  the  foam  with  a  forehead  more  pearly — 

Her  head  is  involved  in  an  aerial  mist, 

And  a  bright-beaded  bracelet  encircles  her  wrist ; 

Her  visage  glows  warm  with  the  ardor  of  duty ; 

She  's  Industry's  moral — she  's  all  moral  beauty ! 

Growing  brighter  and  brighter  at  every  ruli — 

Would  any  man  ruin  her  ? — No,  JSIr.  Scrub  ! 

No  man  that  is  manly  would  work  her  mishap — 

No  man  that  is  manly  would  covet  her  cap — 

Nor  her  apron— her  hose— nor  her  gown  made  of  stufif — 

Nor  her  gin — nor  her  tea— nor  her  wet  pinch  of  snuff! 

Alas !  so  she  thought — but  that  slippery  hope 

Has  betrayed  her — as  tho'  she  had  trod  on  her  soap ! 

And  she — whose  sujjport— like  tho  fishes  that  fly, 

Was  to  have  her  fins  v/et,  must  now  drop  from  her  sky — 

She  whose  living  it  was,  and  a  part  of  her  fare, 

To  be  damped  once  a  day,  like  the  great  white  sea  bear, 

With  her  hands  like  a  sponge,  and  her  head  like  a  mop — 

Quite  a  living  absorbent  that  revelled  in  slop  — 

She  that  paddled  in  water,  must  walk  upon  sand. 

And  sigh  for  her  deeps  like  a  turtle  on  land ! 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   STEAM   WASHING    COMPANY.        441 

Lo,  then,  the  poor  Laundress,  all  wretched  she  stands, 
Instead  of  a  counterpane,  wringing  her  hands  ! 
All  haggard  and  pinched,  going  down  in  life's  vale, 
"With  no  faggot  for  burning,  like  Allan-a-dalc ! 
No  smoke  from  her  flue — and  no  steam  from  her  pane, 
There  once  she  watched  heaven,  fearing  God  and  the  rain — 
Or  gazed  o'er  her  bleach-field  so  foirlj  engrossed, 
Till  the  lines  wandered  idle  from  pillar  to  post ! 
Ah,  where  are  the  playful  young  pinners — ah,  -where 
The  harlequin  quilts  that  cut  capers  in  air — 
The  brisk  waltzing  stockings — the  white  and  the  black, 
That  danced  on  the  tight-rope,  or  swung  on  the  slack — 
The  light  sylph-like  garments,  so  tenderly  pinned. 
That  blew  into  shape,  and  embodied  the  wind  ! 
There  was  white  on  the  grass — there  was  white  on  the  spray — - 
Her  garden — it  looked  like  a  garden  of  ^-lay  ! 
But  now  all  is  dark — not  a  shirt 's  on  a  shrub — 
You  've  ruined  her  prospects  in  life,  Mr.  Scrub  ! 
You  've  ruined  her  custom — now  families  drop  her — 
From  her  silver  reduced — nay,  reduced  from  her  copper  ! 
The  last  of  her  washing  is  done  at  her  eye, 
One  poor  little  kerchief  that  never  gets  dry ! 
From  mere  lack  of  linen  she  can't  lay  a  cloth, 
And  boils  neither  barley  nor  alkaline  broth — 
But  her  children  come  round  her  as  victuals  grow  scant, 
And  recal,  with  foul  faces,  the  source  of  their  want — 
When  she  thinks  of  their  poor  little  mouths  to  be  fed, 
And  then  thinks  of  her  trade  that  is  utterly  dead. 
And  even  its  pearlashes  laid  in  the  grave — 
Whilst  her  tub  is  a  dry  rotting,  stave  after  stave, 
And  the  greatest  of  Coopers,  ev'n  he  that  they  dub 
Sir  Astley,  can't  bind  up  her  heart  or  her  tub — 
Need  you  wonder  she  curses  your  bones,  jNlr.  Scrub  ? 
19* 


442        ADDRESS  TO   THE   STEAM   WASHING   COMPANY. 

Need  you  wonder,  when  steam  has  deprived  her  of  bread, 
If  she  prays  that  the  evil  may  visit  your  head — 
Nay,  scald  all  the  heads  of  your  Washing  Committee — 
If  she  wishes  you  all  the  soot  blacks  of  the  city — 
In  short,  not  to  mention  all  plagues  without  number, 
If  she  wishes  you  all  in  the  Wash  at  the  Humber ! 

Ah,  perhaps,  in  some  moment  of  drouth  and  despair, 
When  her  linen  got  scarce,  and  her  washing  grew  rare — 
When  the  sum  of  her  suds  might  be  summed  in  a  bowl, 
And  the  rusty  cold  iron  quite  entered  her  soul — 
When,  perhaps,  the  last  glance  of  her  wandering  eye 
Had  caught  "  'he  C^cV  Laundresses'  Coach"  going  by, 
Or  her  lines  that  iiuug  idle,  to  waste  the  fine  weather, 
And  she  thought  of  her  wrongs  and  her  rights  both  together, 
In  a  lather  of  passion  that  frothed  as  it  rose, 
Too  angry  for  grammar,  too  lofty  for  prose. 
On  her  sheet — if  a  &neet  were  still  left  her — to  write. 
Some  remonstrance  like  this  then,  p*^-   '    ^ 'Ce,  saw  the  light — 


LETTER  OF  REMONSTRANCE 

FROM  BRIDGET  JONES 

TO  THE   NOBLKMKJT   AND  GENTLEMEN  FORMING  THE  WASHING  COiOOnXS, 

It 's  a  shame,  so  it  is — men  can't  Let  alone 

Jobs   as   is   Woman's   right   to   do — and   go   about  there 

Own — 
Theirs  Reforms  enuff  Alreddy  without  your  new  schools 
Eor  washing  to  sit  Up — and  push  the  Old  Tubs  from  their 

stools ! 
But  your  just  like  the  Raddicals — for   upsetting  of  the 

Sudds 


ADDRESS   TO   THE  STEAM   WASHING   COMPANY.        443 

When  the  world  wagged  well  enufF — and  Wommen  washed 

your  old  dirty  duds, 
I  'm  Certain  sure  Enuft'your  Ann  Sisters  had  no  steem  In-, 

dians.  that's  Flat —  i 

But  I  warrant  your  Four  Fathers  went  as  Tidy  and  gentle- 

manny  for  all  that — 
I  suppose  your  the  Family  as  lived  in  the  Great  Kittle 
I  see  on  Clapham  Commun,  some  times  a  very  considerable 

period  back  when  I  were  little, 
And  they  Said  it  went  with  Stecm — But  that  was  a  joke  ! 
For  I  never  see  none  come  of  it — that  "s  out  of  it — but  only 

sum  Smoak — 
And  for  All  your  Power  of  Horses  about  your  Indians  you 

never  had  luit  Two 
In  my  time  to  draw  you  About  to  Fairs — and  hang  you, 

you  know  that 's  true  ! 
And  for  All  your  fine  Perspectuses — howsomever  you  be- 

which  'em, 
Theirs  as  Pretty  ones  off  Primerows  Hill,  as  ever  a  one  at 

Mitchum, 
Thof  I  cant  sea  What  Prospectivcs  and  washing  has  with 

one  another  to  Do  — 
It  ant  as  if  a  Birdseye  Ilankicher  could  take  a  Birdshigh 

view  ! 
But  Thats  your  look  out — I  've  not  much  to  do  with  that — 

But  pleas  God  to  hold  up  fine, 
Id  show  you  caps  and  pmners  and  small  things  as  lilliwhit 

as  Ever  crosst  the  Line 
Without  going  any  Father  off  then  Little  Parodies  Place, 
And  Thats  more  than  you  Can — and  111  say  it  behind  your 

fiice — 
But  when  Folks  talks  of  washing,  it  ant  for  you  to  Speak — 
As  kept  Dockter  Pattyson  out  of  his  Shirt  for  a  Weak  ! 


444        ADDRESS   TO   THE    STEAM   WABHIXQ    COMPANY. 

Thinks  I,  when  I  heard  it — WelL  tlievc  's  a  pretty  go ! 
That  comes  o'  not  marking  of  things  or  washing  out  the 

marks,  and  Huddling  'cm  ixp  so  ! 
Till  Their  friends   comes   and  owns  them,  like  drownded 

corpeses  in  a  Vault, 
But  may  Hap  you  liaviut  Larned  to  spcl — and  That  ant 

your  Fault, 
Only  you  ought  to  leafc  the  Linnins  to  them  as  has  Larned — 
For  if  it  wai-nt  for  Washing — and  whare  Bills  is  concarned 
What  "s  the  YusO;  of  all  the  world,  for  a  Wommans  Headi- 

cation, 
And  Their  Being  maid  Schollards  of  Sundays — fit  for  any 

Cityation. 

Well,  what  I  siys  is  This—when  every  Kittle  has  its 

spout. 
Theirs  no  nead  for  Companys  to  puif  steem  about ! 
To  be  sure  its  very  Well,  when  Their  ant  enuff  Wind 
For  blowing  up  Boats  with — but  not  to  hurt  human  kind 
Like  that  Pearkins  with  his  Blunderbush,  that's  loaded 

with  hot  water, 
Thof  a  X  Slierrif  might  knovr  Better,  than  make  things  for 

slaughtter, 
As  if  War  w^anit  Cruel  cnuii — wherever  it  befalls. 
Without  shooting  poor  sogers,  vath  sich  scalding  hot  balls — 
But  thats  not  so  Bad  as  a  Sett  of  Bear  Faced  Scrubbs 
As  joins   their  Sopes  together,  and  sits  up  Steem  rubbing 

Clubs, 
Forv/ashing  Dirt  Cheap — and  eating  other  Peple's  grubs! 
Which  is  all  verry  Fine  for  you  and  your  Patent  Tea, 
Bat  I  wonders  How  Poor  "Wommen  is  to  get  Their  Beau-He  ! 
They  must  drink  Hunt  wash  (the  only  wash  God  nose  there 

will  be !) 


ADDKESS   TO   THE    STEAM    \YASHING    COMPANY.        445 

And  their  Little  drop  of  Somethings  as  thoy  takes  for  their 

Goods, 
When  you  and  your  Steem  has  ruined  (G— d  forgive  mce) 

their  lively  Hoods, 
Poor  Wonimen  as  was  born  to  Washing  in  their  youth  ! 
And  now  must  go  and  Larn  other  Buisnesses  Four  Sooth ! 
But  if  so  be  They  leave  their  Lines  v.hat  are  they  to  go  at — > 
They  won't  do  for  Angell's — nor  any  Trade  like  That, 
Nor  we  cant  Sow  Babby  Work — for  that  'B  all  Bespoke — 
For  the   Queakers  in  Bridle  !  and  a  vast  of  the  confined 

Folk 
Do  their  own  of  Themselves — even  the  bettermost  of  em — 

aye,  and  evn  them  of  middling  degrees — 
Why  Lauk  help  you  Babby  Linen  ant  Bread  and  Cheese ! 
Xor  we  can't  go  a  hammering  the  roads  into  Dust, 
But  Ave  must  all  go  and  be  Bankers— like  Mr.  Marshes  and 

Mr.  Chamberses — and  that 's  what  wc  must ! 
God  nose  you  oght  to  have  more  Concern  for  our  Sects, 
When  you  nose  you  have  sucked  us  and  hanged  round  our 

Mu^^herly  necks, 
And  remembers  what  you  Owes  to  Vrommen  Besides  wash- 

You  ant,  blame  you  !  like  T^Ien  to  go  a  slushing  and  sloshing 

In  mop  caps,  and  pattins,  adoing  of  Females  Labors 

And  prettily  jeared  At  you  great  Horse  God  Meril  things, 

ant  you  now  by  your  next  door  naybors — 
Lawk  I  thinks  I  see  you  v/ith  your  Sleaves  tuckt  up 
Iso  more  like  Washing  than  is  drownding  of  a  Pupp, 
And  for  all  Your  Fine  Water  Works  going  round  and  round 
They  '11  scruntch  your  Bones  some  day — I  '11  be  bound 
And  no  more  nor  be  a  gudgement — for  it  cant  come  to  good 
To  sit  up  agin  Providince,  Avhich  your  a  doing — nor  not  iit 

It  should. 


446        ADDRESS   TO    THE    STEAM   "WASHING   COMPANY. 

For  man  warnt  maid  for  Wommens  starvation, 

Nor  to  do  away  Laundrisses  as  is  Links  of  the  Creation — 

And  cant  be  dun  without  in  any  Country  But  a  naked 

Hottinpot  Xation. 
Ah,  I  wish  our  Minister  would  take  one  of  your  Tubbs 
And  preach  a  Sermon  in  it,  and  give  you  some  good  rubs — 
But  I  warrants  you  reads    (for  you  cant  spel  we  nose) 

nyther  Bybills  or  Good  Tracks, 
Or  youd  no  better  than  Taking  the  close  off  one's  Backs — 
And  let  your  neighbors  oxin  an  Asses  alone — 
And  every  Thing  thats  hern — and   give   every  one   their 

Hone! 

Well,  its  God  for  us  Al  ,  and  every  Washer  Wommen  for 

herself. 
And  so  you  might,  without  shoving  any  on  us  off  the  shelf, 
But  if  you  warnt  Noddis  you  Let  wommen  abe 
And  pull  off  Your  Pattins — and  leave  the  washing  to  we 
That  nose  what  "s  what — Or  mark  what  I  say, 
Toul  make  a  fine  Kittle  of  fish  of  Your  Close  some  Day — 
When  the  Aulder  men  wants  Their  Bibs  and  their  ant  nun 

at  all, 
And  Cris  mass  cum — and  never  a  Cloth  to  lay  in  Gild  Hall, 
Or  send  a  damp  shirt  to  his  Woship  the  Mare 
Till  hes  rumatiz  Poor  Man,  and  cant  set  uprite  to  do  good 

in  his  Hann-Chare — 
Besides  ]Miss-Matching  Larned  Ladys  Hose,  as  is  sent  for 

you  not  to  wash  (for  you  dont  wash)  but  to  stew 
And  make  Peples  Stockins  yeller  as  oght  to  be  Blew 
With  a  vast  more  like  That — and  all  along  of  Steem 
Which  warnt  meand  by  Nater  for  any  sich  skeam — 
But  thats  your  Losses  and  youl  have  to  make  It  Good, 
And  I  cant  say  I  "m  Sorry  afore  God  if  you  shoud, 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   STEAM    WASHING    COMPANY.        447 

For  men  mouglit  Get  their  Bread  a  great  many  ways 

Without  taking  ourn — aye,  and  Moor  to  your  Prays 

You  might  go  and  skim  the  creme  off  Mr.  Muck- Adam's 

milky  ways — that 's  what  you  might, 
Or  bete  Carpets — or  get  into  Parleamint — or  drive  Crabro- 

lays  from  morning  to  night, 
Or,  if  you  must  be  of  our  sects,  be  Watchmen,  and  slepe 

upon  a  poste ! 
(Which  is  an  od  way  of  sleping,  I  must  say — and  a  very 

hard  pillow  at  most.) 
Or  you  might  be  any  trade,  as  we  are  not  on  that  I  'm 

awares, 
Or  be  Watermen  now.  (not  Water- wommen)  and  roe  peple 

up  and  down  Hungerford  stares, 
Or  if  You  Was  even  to  Turn  Dust  Men  a  dry  siftincj  Dirt ! 
But  you  oughtint  to  Hurt  Them  as  never  Did  You  no  Hurt ! 
Yourn  with  Anymocity, 

Bridget  Jones. 


ODE 

TO   CAPTAIN   PARRY." 

"Bvthe  North  Tole,  I  do  challenge  thee  I" 

Lote'8  Laboe's  Lost. 

Parry,  my  man  !  has  thj  brave  leg 
Yet  struck  its  foot  against  the  peg 

On  which  the  world  is  spun  ? 
Or  hast  thou  found  ^o  Thoroughfare 
Writ  by  the  hand  of  Nature  there 

Where  man  has  never  run ! 

Hast  thou  yet  traced  the  Great  Unknown 
Of  channels  in  the  Frozen  Zone, 

Or  held  at  Icy  Bay, 
Hast  thou  still  missed  the  proper  track 
For  homeward  Indian  men  that  lack 

A  bracing  by  the  way  ? 

Still  hast  thou  wasted  toil  and  trouble 
On  nothing  but  the  North-Sea  Bubble 

Of  geographic  scholar  ? 
Or  found  new  Avays  for  ships  to  shape, 
Instead  of  winding  round  the  Cape, 

A  short  cut  thro'  the  collar  ! 

Hast  found  the  way  that  sighs  were  sent  to* 
The  Pole — tho'  God  knows  whom  they  went  to ! 

*  ''And  waft  a  sigh  from  Indus  to  the  Pole." 

Eloisa  to  Ahelard. 


ODE   TO    CAPTAIN    PARRY,  449 

That  track  revealed  to  Pope — 
Or  if  the  Arctic  waters  sally, 
Or  terminate  in  some  blind  alley, 

A  chilly  path  to  grope  ? 

Alas !  tho'  Ross,  in  love  with  snows, 
Has  painted  them  coukiir  de  rose, 

It  is  a  dismal  doom, 
As  Claudio  saith,  to  Winter  thrice, 
"  In  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice" — 

All  bright — and  yet  all  gloom  ! 

'Tis  well  for  Gheber  souls  that  sit 
Before  the  fire  and  worship  it 

With  pecks  of  Wallsend  coals, 
With  feet  upon  the  fender's  front. 
Roasting  their  corns — like  Mr.  Hunt — 

To  speculate  on  poles. 

'Tis  easy  for  our  Naval  Board — 
'Tis  easy  for  our  Civic  Lord 

Of  London  and  of  ease. 
That  lies  in  ninety  feet  of  down, 
With  fur  on  his  nocturnal  gown. 

To  talk  of  Frozen  Seas  ! 

'Tis  fine  for  Monsieur  Ude  to  sit, 
And  prate  about  the  mundane  spit, 

And  babble  of  Cook's  track — 
He  'd  roast  the  leather  off  his  toes, 
Ere  he  would  trudge  thro'  polar  snows. 

To  plant  a  British  Jack  ! 

Oh,  not  the  proud  licentious  great, 
That  travel  on  a  carpet  skate, 


450  ODE  TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY. 

Can  value  toils  like  thine ! 
What  'tis  to  take  a  Hecla  range, 
Through  ice  unknoAvn  to  Mrs.  Grange, 

And  alpine  lumps  of  brine  ! 

But  we,  that  mount  the  Hill  o'  Rhyme, 
Can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  lofty  slippery  steep. 
Ah  !  there  are  more  Snow  Hills  than  that 
Which  doth  black  Newgate,  like  a  hat. 

Upon  its  forehead  keep. 

Perchance  thou  'rt  now — while  I  am  writing- 
Feeling  a  bear's  wet  grinder  biting 

About  thy  frozen  spine  ! 
Or  thou  thyself  art  eating  whale, 
Oily,  and  underdone,  and  stale, 

That,  haply,  crossed  thy  line  ! 

But  I  '11  not  dream  such  dreams  of  ill — 
Rather  will  I  believe  thee  still 

Safe  cellared  in  the  snow — 
Reciting  many  a  gallant  story, 
Of  British  kings  and  British  glory. 

To  crony  Esquimaux — 

Cheering  that  dismal  game  where  Night 
Makes  one  slow  move  from  black  to  white 

Thro'  all  the  tedious  year — 
Or  smitten  by  some  fond  frost  fair. 
That  combed  out  crystals  from  her  hair, 

Wooing  a  seal-skin  Dear  ! 

So  much  a  long  communion  tends. 
As  Byron  says,  to  make  us  friends 


ODE   TO    CAPTAIN    PARRY. 

"With  what  Tve  daily  vic"vr — 
God  knows  the  daintiest  taste  may  come 
To  love  a  nose  that  "s  like  a  plum 

In  marble,  cold  and  blue  ! 

To  dote  on  hair,  an  oily  fleece  ! 

As  tho"  it  hung  from  Helen  o'  Greece — 

They  say  that  love  prevails 
Ev'n  in  the  veriest  polar  land — 
And  surely  she  may  steal  thy  hand 

That  used  to  steal  thy  nails  ! 

But  ah,  ere  thou  ?.rt  fixt  to  marry, 
And  take  a  polar  Mrs.  Parry, 

Think  of  a  six  months'  gloom — 
Think  jof  the  wintry  waste,  and  hers, 
Each  furnished  with  a  dozen  furs^ 

Think  of  thine  icy  dome ! 

Think  of  the  childi-en  born  to  blubber  ! 
Ah  me  !  hast  thou  an  Indian  rubber 

Inside  ! — to  hold  a  meal 
For  months — about  a  stone  and  half 
Of  whale,  and  part  of  a  sea  calf — 

A  fillet  of  salt  veal ! — 

Some  walrus  ham — no  trifle  but 
A  decent  steak — a  solid  cut 

Of  seal — no  wafer  slice  ! 
A  reindeer's  tongue  and  drink  beside  \ 
Gallons  of  Sperm — not  rectified ! 

And  pails  of  water-ice  ! 

Oh,  canst  thou  fast  and  then  feast  thus  ? 
Still  come  away,  and  teach  to  us 


451 


452  ODE  TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY. 

Those  blessed  alternations — 
To-daj  to  run  our  dinners  fine, 
To  feed  on  air  and  then  to  dine 

With  Civic  Corporations — 

To  save  th'  Old  Bailej  daily  shilling, 
And  then  to  take  a  half  year's  filling 

In  P.  N.'s  pious  Row — 
When  asked  to  Hock  and  haunch  o'  ven'son, 
Thro'  something  we  have  worn  our  pens  on 

For  Longman  and  his  Co. 

O  come  and  tell  us  what  the  Pole  is — 
Whether  it  singular  and  sole  is — 

Or  straight,  or  crooked  bent — 
If  very  thick  or  very  thin — 
Made  of  what  wood — and  if  akin 

To  those  there  be  in  Kent. 

There 's  Combe,  there 's  Sjiurzheim,  and  there 's  Gall, 
Have  talked  of  poles — yet,  after  all, 

What  has  the  public  learned? 
And  Hunt's  account  must  still  defer — 
He  sought  the  poll  at  Westminster — 

And  is  not  yet  returned  I 

Alvanly  asks  if  whist,  dear  soul, 

Is  played  in  snow-storms  near  the  Pole, 

And  how  the  fur-man  deals? 
And  Eldon  doubts  if  it  be  true, 
That  icy  Chancellors  really  do 

Exist  upon  the  seals  ! 

Barrow,  by  well-fed  ofiice  grates. 
Talks  of  his  own  bechristened  Straits, 


ODE   TO    CAPTAIN    PARRY.  453 

And  longs  that  he  were  there ; 
And  Croker,  in  his  cabriolet, 
Sighs  o'er  his  brown  horse,  at  his  Bay, 

And  pants  to  cross  the  mer  ! 

0  come  away,  and  set  us  right, 
And,  haply,  throw  a  northern  light 

On  questions  such  as  these  : — 
Whether,  when  this  drowned  world  was  lost, 
The  surflux  waves  were  locked  in  frosr, 

And  turned  to  Icy  Seas  ! 

Is  Ursa  Major  white  or  black  ? 
Or  do  the  Polar  tribes  attack 

Their  neighbors — and  what  for? 
Whether  they  ever  play  at  cuflfe, 
And  then,  if  they  take  off  their  muffs 

In  pugilistic  war  ? 

Tell  us,  is  Winter  champion  there, 
As  in  our  milder  fighting  air  ? 

Say,  what  are  Chilly  loans  ? 
What  cures  they  have  for  rheums  beside, 
And  if  their  hearts  gets  ossified 

From  eating  bread  of  bones  ? 

Whether  they  are  such  dwarfs — the  quicker 
To  circulate  the  vital  liquor — 

And  then,  from  head  to  heel — 
How  short  the  Methodists  must  choose 
Their  dumpy  envoys  not  to  lose 

Their  toes  in  spite  of  zeal  ? 

Whether  'twill  soften  or  sublime  it 
To  preach  of  Hell  in  such  a  climate — 


454  ODE  TO  CAPTAIX  PARRY. 

Whether  may  "Weslej  hope 
To  vrin  their  souls — or  that  old  function 
Of  seals — with  the  extreme  of  unction — 

Bespeaks  them  for  the  Pope  ? 

Whether  the  lamps  will  e'er  be  '•  learned" 
"WTiere  six  months'  "  midnight  oil"  is  burned, 

Or  Letters  must  defer 
With  people  that  have  never  conned 
An  A.  B,  C,  but  live  beyond 

The  Sound  of  Lancaster  ! 

O  come  away  at  any  rate  — 

Well  hast  thou  earned  a  downier  state — 

With  all  thy  hardy  peers — ■ 
Good  lack,  thou  must  be  glad  to  smell  dock, 
And  rub  thy  feet  with  opodeldock, 

After  such  frosty  years. 

Mayhap,  some  gentle  dame  at  last, 
Smit  by  the  perils  thou  hast  passed, 

However  coy  before, 
Shall  bid  thee  now  set  up  thy  rest 
In  that  Brest  Harbor.  Woman's  breast, 

And  tempt  the  Fates  no  more. 


ADDRESS 

TO  E.  W.  ELLISTON,  ESQUIRE, 

TOE   GREAT    LESSEE  I 

'•  T)o  vou  know  you  Tillain,  that  I  am  at  this  moment  the  greatest  man  living?" 
'  Wild  Oats. 

On !  Great  Lessee !  Great  Manager  !  Great  IMan ' 
Oh,  Lord  High  Elliston  !  Immortal  Pan 
Of  all  the  pipes  that  play  in  Drury  Lane ! 
Macready's  master!  Westminster's  high  Dane! 
(As  Galway  Martin,  in  the  House's  walls, 
Hamlet  and  Doctor  Ireland  justly  calls  !) 
Friend  to  the  sweet  and  ever-smiling  Spring ! 
Magician  of  the  lamp  and  prompter's  rmg  ! 
Drury's  Aladdin  !  Whipper-in  of  Actors  ! 
Kicker  of  rebel-preflice-malefactors  I 
Glass-blowers'  corrector!  King  of  the  cheque-taker  I 
At  once  Great  Leamington  and  Winston-lMaker ! 
Dramatic  Bolter  of  plain  B^mns  and  Cakes ! 
Li  silken  hose  the  most  reformed  of  Rakes  ! 
Oh,  Lord  High  Elliston  I  lend  me  an  ear  I 
(roolc  is  away,  and  Williams  shall  keep  clear) 
While  I,  in  little  slips  of  prose,  not  verse, 
Thy  splendid  course,  as  pattern-worker,  rehearse ! 

Bright  was  thy  youth— thy  manhood  brighter  still— 
The  greatest  Romeo  upon  Holborn  IIill— 


456  ADDEESS   TO   R.    TT.    ELLISTOX,    ESQ. 

Lightest  comedian  of  the  pleasant  daj, 

When  Jordan  threw  her  sunshine  o'er  a  plaj ! 

TMien  fair  Thalia  held  a  merry  reign, 

And  "Wit  was  at  her  Court  in  Drurj  Lane  ! 

Before  the  day  when  Authors  wrote,  of  course, 

The  '•  Entertainment  not  for  Man  but  Hoi'se." 

Yet  these,  though  happy,  were  but  subject  times, 

And  no  man  cares  for  bottom-steps  that  climbs — 

Far  from  my  wish  it  is  to  stifle  down 

The  hours  that  saw  thee  snatch  the  Surrey  crovv'n  ! 

Tho'  now  thy  hand  a  mightier  sceptre  wields, 

Fair  was  thy  reign  in  sweet  St.  George's  Fields. 

Dibdin  was  Premier — and  a  golden  ctfje 

For  a  short  time  enriched  the  subject  stage. 

Thou  hadst,  than  other  Kings,  more  peace-and-plenty  ,• 

Ours  but  one  Bench  could  boast,  whilst  thou  hadst  twenty ; 

But  the  times  changed — and  Booth-acting  no  more 

Drew  Rulers'  shillings  to  the  gallery-door. 

Thou  didst,  with  bag  and  baggage,  wander  thence, 

Repentant,  like  thy  neighbor  Magdalens  ! 

Next,  the  Olympic  Games  were  tried,  each  feat 

Practised,  the  most  bewitching  in  Wych  Street. 

Rochester  there  in  dirty  ways  again 

Revelled — and  lived  once  more  in  Drury  Lane : 

But  thou,  R.  W.  !  kept'st  thy  moral  ways, 

Pit-lecturing  'twixt  the  forces  and  the  plays, 

A  lamplight  L'ving  to  the  butcher  boys 

That  soiled  the  benches  and  that  made  a  noise  : — 

Rebuking— Half  a  Robert,  Half  a  Charles — 

The  well-billed  ]\Lm  that  called  for  promised  Carles  ; 

"  Sir  ! — Have  you  yet  to  know  !     Hush— hoar  me  out ! 

A  Tvlan — pray  silence ! — may  be  down  with  gout, 


ADDRESS   TO    R.    AV..  ELLISTUX,    ESQ.  457 

Or  Avant — or  Sir — aw  ! — listen  I— may  be  fated, 

Being  in  debt,  to  be  incarcerated ! 

You — in  the  back ! — can  scarcely  hear  a  line  I 

Down  from  those  benches — butchers — they  arc  mine!'' 

Lastly — and  thou  wert  built  for  it  hj  nature  ! — 
Crowned  was  thy  head  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre  ! 
Gentle  George  Robins  saw  that  it  was  good. 
And  Renters  clucked  around  thee  in  a  brood. 
King  thou  wert  made  of  Drury  and  of  Kean ! 
Of  many  a  lady  and  of  many  a  Quean ! 
AVith  Poole  and  Larpent  was  thy  reign  begun — 
But  now  thou  turnest  from  the  Dead  and  Dun, 
Hook 's  in  thine  eye,  to  write  thy  plays,  no  doubt, 
And  Colman  lives  to  cut  the  damnlets  out ! 


Oh,  worthy  of  the  house  !  the  King's  commission ! 
Isn't  thy  condition  '■  a  most  blessed  condition ?"' 
Thou  reignest  over  Winston,  Kean,  and  all. 
The  very  lofty  and  the  very  small — 
Showest  the  plunibless  Bunn  the  way  to  kick — 
Keepest  a  Williams  for  thy  veriest  stick — 
Seest  a  Vestris  in  her  sweetest  moments, 
Without  the  danger  of  newspaper  comments — 
Tellest  Macready,  as  none  dared  before, 
Thine  open  mind  from  the  half-open  door  I — 
(Alas  !  I  fear  he  has  left  ^lelpomene's  crown. 
To  be  a  Boniface  in  Buxton  town  !) — 
Thou  holdst  the  watch,  as  half-price  people  know, 
And  callest  to  them,  to  a  moment — "  Go  !"' 
Teachest  the  sapient  Sapio  how  to  sing — 
Hangest  a  cat  most  oddly  by  the  wing — ■ 

20 


458  ADDRESS   TO   R.    W.    ELLISTOX,    ESQ. 

(To  prove,  no  doubt,  the  endless  free  list  ended, 
And  all,  except  the  public  press,  suspended) 
Hast  known  the  length  of  a  Cubitt-foot — and  kissed 
The  pearly  whiteness  of  a  Stephens'  wrist — 
Kissing  and  pitying — tender  and  humane  ! 
"  By  Heaven  she  loves  me  !     Oh,  it  is  too  plain!" 
A  sigh  like  this  thy  trembling  passion  slips, 
Dimpling  the  warm  JNIadeira  at  thy  lips ! 

Go  on,  Lessee  !     Go  on,  and  prosper  well ! 
Fear  not,  though  forty  Glass-blowers  should  rebel — 
Show  them  how  thou  hast  lonsr  befriended  them, 
And  teach  Dubois  their  treason  to  condemn  ! 
Go  on !  addressing  pits  in  prose  and  Avorse ! 
Be  long,  be  slow,  be  any  thing  but  terse — 
Kiss  to  the  gallery  the  hand  that 's  gloved — 
Make  Bunn  the  Great,  and  Winston  the  Beloved, 
Ask  the  two  shilling  Gods  for  leave  to  dun 
With  words  the  cheaper  Deities  in  the  One  ! 
Kick  Mr.  Poole  unseen  from  scene  to  scene, 
Cane  Yulliams  still,  and  stick  to  Mr.  Kean, 
Warn  from  the  benches  all  the  rabble  rout ; 
Say,  those  are  mine — ''  In  parliament,  or  out !" 
Swing  cats — for  in  thy  house  there  's  surely  space — 
Oh  Beasley,  for  such  pastime,  planned  the  place ! 
Do  any  thing ! — Thy  fame,  thy  fortune,  nourish ! 
Laugh  and  grow  fat !  be  eloquent,  and  flourish ! 
Go  on — and  but  in  this  reverse  the  thiuo;. 
Walk  backward  with  wax  lio-hts  before  the  King — 
Go  on !  Spring  ever  in  thine  eye  !  Go  on ! 
Hope's  favorite  child !  ethereal  Elliston ! 


ADDRESS 
TO  MAEIA  DARLINGTON," 

ox   HER   RETtTEX   TO   THE   STAGE. 

"  It  was  Maria ! — 

And  better  fate  did  Maria  deserve  than  to  have  her  banns  forbid 

She  had,  since  that,  she  told  me,  strayed  as  far  as  Eome,  and  walked  round  St.  Pe- 
ter's once — and  returned  back " 

See  the  ijchole  Story,  in  Sterile  and  tTve  Xeicspapers. 

Thou  art  come  back  again  to  the  stage, 

Quite  as  blooming  as  -when  thou  didst  leave  it ; 
And  'tis  well  for  this  fortunate  age 

That  thou  didst  not,  by  going  off,  grieve  it ! 
It  is  pleasant  to  see  thee  again — 

Right  pleasant  to  see  thee,  by  Hercle, 
Unmolested  by  pea-colored  Hayne  ! 

And  fi'ee  from  that  thou-and-thee  Berkeley ! 

Thy  sweet  foot,  my  Foote,  is  as  light 

(Not  my  Foote — I  speak  by  correction) 
As  the  snow  on  some  mountain  at  night, 

Or  the  snow  that  has  long  on  thy  neck  shone. 
The  pit  is  in  raptures  to  free  thee, 

The  Boxes  impatient  to  gi-eet  thee, 
The  Galleries  quite  clam'rous  to  see  thee, 

And  thy  scenic  relations  to  meet  thee ! 


460  ADDRESS   TO    MARIA    DARLINGTON. 

Ah,  -where  -was  thy  sacred  retreat  ? 

Maria  !  ah,  where  hast  thou  been, 
With  thy  two  little  wandering  Feet, 

Far  away  from  all  peace  and  pea-green  I 
Far  away  from  Fitzhardinge  the  bold, 

Far  away  from  himself  and  his  lot ! 
I  envy  the  place  thou  hast  strolled, 

If  a  stroller  thou  art — which  thou  "rt  not ! 

Sterne  met  thee,  poor  wandering  thing, 

Methinks,  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
When  thy  Billy  had  just  slipped  his  string. 

And  thy  little  dog  quite  gone  astray — 
He  bade  thee  to  sorrow  no  more — 

He  wished  thee  to  lull  thy  distress 
In  his  bosom — he  could  n't  do  more, 

And  a  Christian  could  hardly  do  less ! 

Ah,  me !  for  thy  small  plaintive  pipe, 

I  fear  Ave  must  look  at  thine  eye — • 
I  would  it  were  my  task  to  wipe 

That  hazel  orb  thoroughly  dry  ! 
Oh  sure  'tis  a  barbarous  deed 

To  give  pain  to  the  feminine  mind — 
But  the  Avooer  that  left  thee  to  bleed 

Was  a  creature  more  killing  than  kind  ! 

The  man  that  could  tread  on  a  worm 

Were  a  brute — and  inhuman  to  boot ; 
But  he  merits  a  much  harsher  term 

That  can  Avantonly  tread  on  a  Foote  ! 
Soft  mercy  and  gentleness  blend 

To  make  up  a  Quaker — but  he 
That  spurned  thee  could  scarce  be  a  Frie?id, 

Tho'  he  dealt  in  that  Thou-imr  of  thee  ! 


ADDRESS   TO    MARIA   DARLINGTOX, 

They  that  loved  thee,  Maria,  have  floTvn  ! 

The  friends  of  the  midsummer  hour  ! 
But  those  friends  now  in  anguish  atone. 

And  mourn  o'er  thy  desolate  bower. 
Friend  Hajne,  the  Green  Man,  is  quite  out, 

Yea.  utterly  out  of  his  bias  ; 
And  the  faithful  Fitzhardinge,  no  doubt, 

Is  counting  his  Ave  ^Marias  ! 

Ah,  where  wert  thou  diiven  away. 

To  feast  on  thy  desolate  woe  ? 
We  have  witnessed  thy  weeping  in  play, 

But  none  saw  the  earnest  t.ears  flow — 
Perchance  thou  wert  truly  forlorn — 

Tho'  none  but  the  fairies  could  mark 
"Where  they  hung  upon  some  Berkeley  thorn, 

Or  the  thistles  in  Burderop  Park  ! 

Ah.  perhaps,  when  old  age's  white  snow 

Has  silvered  the  crown  of  Hayne"s  nob — 
For  even  the  greenest  will  grow 

As  hoary  as  '•  "VMiiteheaded  Bob'' — 
He  "11  wish,  in  the  days  of  his  prime, 

He  had  been  rather  kinder  to  one 
He  hath  left  to  the  malice  of  Time — 

A  woman — so  weak  and  undone  ! 


461 


ODE 

TO  W.  KITCHENER,  M.D." 

AUTHOR  OP  THE  COOK'S  ORACLE — OBSERyATIOXS  ON  VOCAL  MUSIC — THE 
ART  OP  INVIGORATIXG-  AND  PROLONGING  LIFE — PRACTICAL  OBSERVA- 
TIONS ON  TELESCOPES,  OPERA  GLASSES,  AND  SPECTACLES — THE  HOUSE- 
KEEPER'S  LEDGER — AND    THE    PLEASURE    OF   MAKING   A   AVILL. 

"  I  rule  the  roast,  as  Milton  says !'" — Caleb  Ql'otem. 

On  !  multifarious  man ! 
Thou  Wondrous,  Admirable  Kitclien  Crichton ! 

Born  to  enlighten 
The  laws  of  Optics,  Peptics,  Music,  Cooking — 
Master  of  the  Piano — and  the  Pan — 
As  busj  with  the  kitchen  as  the  skies  ! 

Now  looking 
At  some  rich  stew  thro'  Galileo's  eyes — 
Or  boiling  eggs — timed  to  a  metronome — 

As  much  at  home 
In  spectacles  as  in  mere  isinglass — 
In  the  art  of  frying  brown— as  a  digression 
On  music  and  poetical  expression — 
Whereas,  how  few  of  all  our  cooks,  alas  ! 
Could  tell- Calliope  from  "  Calliopec  !'' 

How  few  there  be 
Could  leave  the  lowest  for  the  highest  stories, 

(Observatories,) 
And  turn,  like  thee,  Diana's  calculator, 
However  cook's  synonymous  with  Kater  !* 

•"■  Captain  Kater,  the  Moou's  Surveyor. 


ODE   TO    W.    KITCHENER,    M.D.  463 

Alas  !  still  let  me  say, 
How  few  could  lay 
The  carving  knife  beside  the  tuning-fork, 
Like  the  proverbial  Jack  ready  for  any  work  ! 

Oh,  to  behold  thy  features  in  thy  book  ! 
Thy  proper  head  and  shoulders  in  a  plate. 

How  it  would  look  ! 
With  one  raised  eye  watching  the  dial's  date, 
And  one  upon  the  roast,  gently  cast  down — 
Thy  chops — done  nicely  brown — 
The  garnished  brow — with  ''  a  few  leaves  of  bay" — 

The  hair — '•  done  W-iggy's  way  F' 
And  still  one  studious  finger  near  thy  brains. 
As  if  thou  wert  just  come 
From  editing  some  • 

New  soup — or  hashing  Dibdm's  cold  remains ! 
Or,  Orpheus-like— fresh  from  thy  dying  strains 
Of  music — Epping  luxuries  of  sound, 

As  Milton  says,  "in  many  a  bout 
Of  Imked  sweetness  long  drawn  out," 
Whilst  all  thy  tame  stuffed  leopards  listened  round  ! 

Oh,  rather  thy  whole  proper  length  reveal, 
Standing  like  Fortune — on  the  jack— thy  wheel. 
(Thou  art,  like  Fortune,  full  of  chops  and  changes, 
Thou  hast  a  fillet  too  before  thine  eye !) 
Scanning  our  kitchen  and  our  vocal  ranges, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  same  to  sing  or  fry — 
Nay,  so  it  is — hear  how  Miss  Paton's  throat 

flakes  "  fritters"  of  a  note  ! 
And  how  Tom  Cook  (Fryer  and  Singer  born 
'^-j  name  and  nature)  oh  !  how  night  and  morn 


464  ODE    TO    W.    KITCHE^'ER,    M.D. 

He  for  the  nicest  public  taste  cloth  dish  up 
The  good  things  from  that  Pati  of  music,  Bishop  ! 
And  is  not  reading  near  akin  to  feedino-, 
Or  why  should  Oxford  Sausages  be  fit 

Receptacles  for  wit  ? 
Or  why  should  Cambridge  put  its  little,  smart, 
Minced  brains  into  a  Tart? 
Nay,  then,  thou  wert  but  wise  to  frame  receipts. 

Book-treats, 
Equally  to  instruct  the  Cook  and  cram  her — 
Receipts  to  be  devoured,  as  well  as  read, 
The  Culinary  Art  in  gingerbread — 
The  Kitchen's  Eaten  Grammar  ! 

Oh,  very  pleasant  is  thy  motley  page — 
Ay,  very  pleasant  in  its  chatty  vein — 
So — in  a  kitchen — would  have  talked  Montaigne, 
That  merry  Gascon — humorist,  and  sage  ! 
Let  slender  minds  with  single  themes  engao-e, 

Like  I\Ir.  Bowles  with  his  eternal  Pope — 
Or  Haydon  on  perpetual  Haydon—  or 

Hume  on  "Twice  three  make  four," 
Or  Lovelass  upon  Wills — Thou  goest  on 
Plaiting  ten  topics,  like  Tate  Wilkinson  ! 

Thy  brain  is  like  a  rich  Kaleidoscope, 
Stuffed  with  a  brilliant  medley  of  odd  bits. 

And  ever  shifting  on  from  change  to  change, 
Saucepans — old  Songs — Pills — Spectacles— and  Spits  ! 

Thy  range  is  wider  than  a  Rumford  Range  ! 
Thy  grasp  a  miracle  ! — till  I  recall 
Th'  indubitable  cause  of  thy  variety — 
Thou  art,  of  course,  th'  Epitome  of  all 
That  spying — frying — singing — mixed  Society 


ODE   TO    W.    KITCHENER,    M.D.  465 

Of  Scientific  Friends,  "wlio  used  to  meet 

Welch  Rabbits — and  thyself — in  Warren  Street ! 

Oh,  hast  thou  still  those  Conversazioni, 
Where  learned  visitors  discoursed — and  fed  ? 

There  came  Belzoni, 
Fresh  from  the  ashes  of  Egyptian  dead — 

And  gentle  Poki — and  that  Rojal  Pair, 
Of  -uhom  thou  didst  declare — 
"  Thanks  to  the  greatest  Cooke  we  ever  read — 
They  were — what  Sandwiches  should  be — half  6rec?/" 
There  famed  M'Adam  from  his  manual  toil 
Relaxed— and  freely  owned  he  took  thy  hints 

On  '"making  Broth  with  Flints'' — 
There  Parry  came,  and  showed  thee  polar  oil 
For  melted  butter — Combe  with  his  medullary 

Motions  about  the  Skullery^ 
And  Mr.  Poole,  too  partial  to  a  broil — 
There  witty  Rogers  came,  that  punning  elf ! 
"Who  used  to  swear  thy  book 
Would  really  look 
A  Delphic  ''  Oracle,"'  if  laid  on  Delf — 
There,  once  a  month,  came  Campbell  and  discussed 
His  own — and  thy  own — "  Magazine  of  Taste'^—y 

There  Wilberforce  the  Just 
Came,  in  his  old  black  suit,  till  once  he  traced 
Thy  sly  advice  to  Poachers  of  Black  Folks, 
That  '■  do  not  break  their  yolks,'' — 
"Which  huffed  him  home,  in  grave  disgust  and  haste  ! 


There  came  John  Clare,  the  poet,  nor  forbore 
Thy  Patties — thou  wert  hand-and-glove  with  Moore, 
Who  called  thee  "  Kitchen  Addison' — for  why? 
20* 


466  ODE    TO    AV.    KITCHEXER,    M.D. 

Thou  givest  rules  for  Health  and  Peptic  Pills, 
Forms  for  made  dishes,  and  receipts  for  Wills, 
••  Teaching  us  how  to  live  and  how  to  die  /" 
There  came  thj  Cousin-Cook,  good  Mrs.  Fry — 
There  Trench,  the  Thames  Projector,  first  brought  on 

His  sine  Q.uay  non — - 
There  IMartin  "svould  drop  in  on  Monday  eves. 
Or  Fridays,  from  the  pens,  and  raise  his  breath 

'Gamst  cattle  days  and  death — 
Answered  by  jNIellish,  feeder  of  fat  beeves, 

"Who  swore  that  Frenchmen  never  could  be  eager 

For  fighting  on  soup  meagre — • 
"  And  yet  (as  thou  would' st  add),  the  French  have  seen 

A  Marshal  Tureen  /" 

Great  was  thy  Evening  Cluster ! — often  graced 
With  DoUond — Burgess — and  Sir  Humphry  Davy! 
'T  was  there  M'Dermot  fii-st  inclined  to  Taste — 
There  Colburn  learned  the  art  of  making  paste 
For  pufis — and  Accum  analyzed  a  gravy, 
Colman — the  Cutter  of  Coleman  Street,  'tis  said 
Came  there — and  Parkins  with  his  Ex-wise-head, 
(Plis  claim  to  letters) — Kater,  too,  the  Moon's 
Crony — and  Graham,  lofty  on  balloons — 
There  Croly  stalked  with  holy  humor  heated, 
Who  wrote  a  light  horse  play,  which  Yates  completed — 

And  Lady  Morgan,  that  grinding  organ. 
And  Brasbridge  telling  anecdotes  of  spoons — 
^ladame  Valbreque  thrice  honored  thee,  and  came 
With  great  Rossini,  his  own  bow  and  fiddle — 
The  Dibdins — Tom,  Charles,  Frognall — came  with  tuns 
Of  poor  old  books,  old  puns  ! 
And  even  Irving  spared  a  night  from  fame-— 


ODE    TO    "W.    KITCHENER,    M.D.  467 

And  talkeil — till  thou  didst  stop  him  in  the  middle, 
To  serve  round  Tew  all- diddle  !  * 

Then  all  the  guests  rose  up,  and  sighed  good-bye ! 
So  let  them  : — thou  thyself  art  still  a  Host ! 

Dibdin — Cornaro — Newton — Mrs.  Fry ! 

Mrs.  Glasse,  Mr.  Spec  I — Lovelass — and  Weber, 

Matthews  in  Quot'em — ^Moore's  fire-worshippmg 
Gheber— 
Thrice-worthy  "Worthy,  seem  by  thee  engrossed ! 
Howbeit  the  Peptic  Cook  still  rules  the  roast, 
Potent  to  hush  all  ventrilocpial  snarling — ■ 
And  ease  the  bosom  pangs  of  indigestion  ! 

Thou  art,  sans  question, 
The  Corporation's  love — its  Doctor  Darling  ! 
Look  at  the  Cine  Palate — nay.  the  Bed 

Which  set  dear  ]\Irs.  Opie  on  supplying 
"  Elustrations  of  Lnjing  !'' 
Ninety  square  feet  of  down  from  heel  to  head 

It  measured,  and  I  di-ead 
Was  haunted  by  that  terrible  night  Mare^ 
A  monstrous  burthen  on  the  corporation  ! — 
Look  at  the  Bill  of  Fare,  for  one  day's  share, 
Sea-turtles  by  the  score— Oxen  by  droves, 
Geese,  turkeys,  by  the  flock — fishes  and  loaves 

Countless,  as  when  the  Lilliputian  nation 
Was  making  up  the  huge  man-mountain's  ration  I 

C)h  !  worthy  Doctor  !  surely  thou  hast  driven 

The  squatting  Demon  from  great  Garratfs  breast — 

(His  honor  seemed  to  rest ! — ) 
And  what  is  thy  reward  ? — Hath  London  given 

*  The  Doctor's  composition  for  a  night-cap. 


468  ODE   TO   W.    KITCHENEK,    M.D. 

Thee  public  thanks  for  thy  important  service  ? 

Alas  !  not  even 
The  tokens  it  bestowed  on  Howe  and  Jervis ! — 
Yet  could  I  speak  as  Orators  should  speak 
Before  the  worshipful  the  Common  Council, 
(Utter  my  bold  bad  grammar  and  pronounce  ill,) 
Thou  should' st  not  miss  thy  Freedom,  for  a  week, 
Richly  engrossed  on  vellum  : — Reason  urges 
That  he  who  rules  our  cookery — that  he 
Who  edits  soups  and  gravies,  ought  to  be 
A  Citizen^  where  sauce  can  make  a  Burgess  ! 


AN    ADDRESS 


TO  THE  VERY  REVEREXD  JOHX  IRELAND,  D.D 


CHAELE3  FrSES  CLi:STON,    LL.D. 

THOMAS  CArSTOX,   D.D. 

IIOWEL  HOLLAND  EDWAKD3,  ICA. 

JOSEPH   ALLEN,    M.A. 

LORD   HENBT   FITZBOY,   M.A. 

THE  BISHOP  OF  EXETEE. 


■Vnl.    n.    EDWABD   BENTTXCK, 
JAMES  \rEBBEP.,   B.D. 
WILUAM  SHOET,   D.D 
JAMES  TOUENAT,  D.D. 
AXDEE\r  BELL,    D.D. 
GEOKGE  UOLCOMBB,   D.D. 


THE    DEAN    AXD    CHAPTEK    OF    WESTMINSTER.'' 

"Sure  the  Guardians  of  the  Temple  can  never  think  they  get  enough." 

Citizen  of  the  ■World. 

Oh,  very  reverend  Dean  and  Chapter, 

Exhibitors  of  giant  men, 
Hail  to  each  surplice-backed  Adapter 

Of  England's  dead,  in  her  Stone  den  ! 
Ye  teach  us  properly  to  prize 

Two-shilling  Grays,  and  Gays,  and  Handels, 
And,  to  throw  light  upon  our  eyes. 

Deal  in  Wax  Queens  like  old  wax  candles. 

Oh,  reverend  showmen,  rank  and  file, 

Call  in  your  shillings,  two  and  two  ; 
March  with  them  up  the  middle  aisle. 

And  cloister  them  from  public  view. 
Yours  surely  are  the  dusty  dead. 

Gladly  ye  look  from  bust  to  bust, 
Setting  a  price  on  each  great  head. 

To  make  it  come,  down  with  the  dust. 


470  THE   DEAN   AND    CHAPTER 

Oh,  as  I  see  you  walk  along 

In  ample  sleeves  and  ample  back 
A  pursj  and  well-ordered  throng, 

Thoroughly  fed,  thoroughly  black ! 
In  vain  I  strive  me  to  be  dumb — 

You  keep  each  bard  like  fatted  kid, 
Grind  bones  for  bread  like  Fee  faw  ftim  1 

And  drink  from  sculls  as  Byron  did  I 

The  profitable  Abbey  is 

A  sacred  'Change  for  stony  stock, 
Not  that  a  speculation  'tis — 

The  profit 's  founded  on  a  rock. 
Death,  Dean,  and  Doctors,  in  each  nave 

Bony  investments  have  inurned ! 
And  hard  't  would  be  to  find  a  grave 

From  which  "  no  money  is  returned  !'* 

Here  many  a  pensive  pilgrim,  brought 

By  reverence  for  those  learned  bones, 
Shall  often  come  and  walk  your  short 

Two-shilling*  fare  upon  the  stones. — 
Ye  have  that  talisman  of  Wealth, 

Which  puddling  chemists  sought  of  old, 
Till  ruined  out  of  hope  and  health  ; — 

The  Tomb  's  the  stone  that  turns  to  gold  I 

Oh,  licensed  cannibals,  ye  eat 

Your  dinners  from  your  own  dead  race. 

Think  Gray,  preserved,  a  ''  funeral  meat," 
And  Dryden,  deviled,  after  grace, 

*  Since  this  poem  -u-as  Tvritten,  Doctor  Ireland  and  those  in  authority 
under  him  have  reduced  the  flares.  It  is  gratifying  to  the  Enghsh  People 
to  know,  that  while  butcl^ers'  meat  is  rising,  tombs  are  falling. 


OF   WESTMINSTER.  471 

A  relish ; — and  you  take  your  meal 

From  Rare  Ben  Jonson  underdone, 
Or,  vrliet  your  liolj''  knives  on  Steele, 

To  cut  away  at  Addison  ! 

Oh  say,  of  all  this  famous  age, 

Whose  learned  bones  your  hopes  expect, 
Oh  have  ye  numbered  Rydal's  sage, 

Or  Moore  among  your  Ghosts  elect  ? 
Lord  Byron  was  not  doomed  to  make 

You  richer  by  his  final  sleep — 
"Why  don't  ye  warn  the  Great  to  take 

Their  ashes  to  no  other  heap  ? 

Southey's  reversion  have  ye  got  ? 

With  Coleridge,  for  his  body,  made 
A  bargain  ? — has  Sir  Walter  Scott, 

Like  Peter  Schlemihl,  sold  his  shade  ? 
Has  Rogers  haggled  hard,  or  sold 

His  features  for  your  marble  shows, 
Or  Campbell  bartered,  ere  he 's  cold, 

All  interest  in  his  "  hone  repose?" 

Rare  is  your  show,  ye  righteous  men  ! 

Priestly  Politos — rare,  I  ween 
But  should  ye  not  outside  the  Den  , 

Paint  up  what  in  it  may  be  seen  ? 
A  long  green  Shakspeare,  with  a  deer 

Grasped  in  the  many  folds  it  died  in — 
A  Butler  stuffed  from  ear  to  ear, 

Wet  White  Bears  weeping  o'er  a  Dry-den  I 

Paint  Garrick  up  like  ]Mr.  Paap, 
A  Giant  of  some  inches  high ; 


472  THE   DEAN   AND    CHAPTER 

Paint  Handel  up,  that  organ  chap, 
With  you,  as  grinders,  in  his  eye ; 

Depict  some  plaintive  antique  thino-, 
And  saj  th'  original  may  be  seen ; — 

Blind  Milton  with  a  dos  and  string 
May  be  the  Beggar  o'  Bethnal  Green  I 

Put  up  in  Poet's  Corner,  near 

The  little  door,  a  platform  small ; 
Get  there  a  monkey — never  fear. 

You  '11  catch  the  gapers  one  and  all ! 
Stand  each  of  ye  a  Body  Guard, 

A  Trumpet  under  either  fin, 
And  yell  away  in  Palace  Yard 

"All  dead!  All  dead!  Walk  in!  Walkiu! 

(But  when  the  people  are  inside. 

Their  money  paid — I  pray  you,  bid 
The  keepers  not  to  mount  and  ride 

A  race  around  each  coffin  lid. — 
Poor  Mrs.  Bodkin  thought  last  year. 

That  it  was  hard — the  woman  clacks — 
To  have  so  little  in  her  ear — 

And  be  so  hurried  through  the  Wax ! ) 

"  Walk  in  !  two  shillings  only !  come ! 

Be  not  by  country  grumblers  funked  ! — 
Walk  in,  and  see  th'  illustrious  dumb ! 

The  Cheapest  House  for  the  defunct!" 
Write  up,  't  will  breed  some  just  reflection, 

And  every  rude  surmise  't  Avill  stop — 
Write  up,  that  you  have  no  connexion 

(In  large) — with  any  other  shop  ! 


OF   WESTMINSTER.  473 

And  still,  to  catch  the  Clowns  the  more, 

With  samples  of  your  shows  in  Wax, 
Set  some  old  Harry  near  the  door 

To  answer  queries  with  his  axe. — 
Put  up  some  general  begging-trunk — 

Since  the  last  broke  by  some  mishap, 
You  've  all  a  bit  of  General  Monk, 

From  the  respect  you  bore  his  Cap  1 


ODE 

TO   H.  BODKIX,  ESQ.," 

SECRETARY  TO  THE   SOCIETY   FOE  THE  SUPPRESSION   OF  ME>rDICnY. 


"TMs  is  your  charge — you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men." — 

MucE  Ado  About  Nothixg. 


Hail,  King  of  Shreds  and  Patches,  hail, 

Disperse!'  of  the  Poor  ! 
Thou  Dog  in  office,  set  to  bark 

All  beo-gars  from  the  door  ! 

Great  overseer  of  overseers. 

And  Dealer  in  old  rags ! 
Thy  public  duty  never  fails, 

Thy  ardor  never  flags  ! 

Oh,  -when  I  take  my  walks  abroad, 

How  many  Poor  I  miss  ! 
Had  Doctor  Watts  walked  now-a-days 

He  would  have  wi'itten  this  ! 

So  well  thy  Vagrant  catchers  prowl, 

So  clear  thy  caution  keeps 
The  path — 0,  Bodkin,  sure  thou  hast 

The  eye  that  never  sleeps ! 


1 

ODE   TO   H.    BODKIN,    ESQ.                             475.                    | 

No  Belisarius  pleads  for  alms, 
No  Benbovr  lacketh  legs  ; 

The  pious  man  in  black  is  now 
The  onlj  man  that  begs ! 

Street-Handels  are  disorganized, 

Disbanded  every  band  ! —                                                          ' 
The  silent  scraper  at  the  door 

Is  scarce  allowed  to  stand  ! 

The  Sweeper  brushes  with  his  broom, 
The  Carstairs  with  his  chalk 

Retires — the  Cripple  leaves  his  standi 
But  cannot  sell  his  walk. 

The  old  Wall-blind  resigns  the  wall, 
The  Camels  hide  theii-  humps, 

The  Witherington  without  a  leg 
Mayn't  beg  upon  his  stumps  ! 

1 

Poor  Jack  is  gone,  that  used  to  doff 
His  battered  tattered  hat, 

And  show  his  dangling  sleeve,  alas ! 
There  seemed  no  arm  in  that ! 

■ 

Oh  !  it  was  such  a  sin  to  air 
His  true  blue  naval  rags, 

Glory's  own  trophy,  like  St.  Paul, 
Hung  round  with  holy  flags ! 

1 

Thou  knowest  best.     I  meditate, 

]\Iy  Bodkin,  no  offence  ! 
Let  us,  henceforth,  but  guard  our  pounds, 

Thou  dost  protect  oui-  pence  I 

• 

-176  ODE   TO    H.    BODKIN,    ESQ. 

"U  ell  art  thou  pointed  'gainst  the  Poor, 
For,  when  the  Beggar  Crew 

Bring  their  petitions,  thou  art  paid, 
Of  course,  to  "run  them  through." 

Doubtless  thou  art  what  Hamlet  meant 
To  wretches  the  last  friend  : 

What  ills  can  mortals  have,  they  can't 
"  With  a  bare  Bodkin''  end  ? 


NOTES. 


(1.)     Odes  and  Addresses. 

Hood  tells  us,  in  his  Literary  Reminiscences,  that  on  tiio  publication 
of  the  Odes  and  Addresses,  presentation  copies  were  sent  to  Mr.  Canning 
and  Sir  "Walter  Scott.  "  The  minister,"  he  adds,  "  took  no  notice  of 
the  little  volume ;  but  the  novelist  did,  in  his  usual  kind  manner.  An 
eccentric  friend,  in  writing  to  me,  once  made  a  number  of  colons,  semi- 
colons, &c.,  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper,  adding : 

'  And  these  are  my  points  that  I  place  at  the  foot 
That  you  may  put  stops  that  I  can't  stop  to  put.' 

It  will  surprise  no  one  to  observe  that  the  author  of  Waverley  had  a3 
little  leisure  for  punctuation." 

"  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  to  make  thankful  acknowledgments  for  the 
copy  of  the  Odes  to  Great  People  with  which  he  was  favored  and  more 
particularly  for  the  amusement  he  has  received  fi-om  the  perusal.  He 
wishes  the  unknown  author  good  health  good  fortune  and  Avhutcver 
other  good  things  can  best  support  and  encourage  his  lively  vein  of  in- 
offensive and  humorous  satire 

'■^ Abbot gf or d  Melrose  ith  Maif 

Coleridge  also  was  favorably  impressed  with  tlio  Odes,  and  cf  his 
second  meeting  with  Hood  at  Colebrookc,  the  following  anecdote  i.3 
related.  The  author  of  Ch"istahel  was  attended  l^y  one  of  his  sons,  and 
made  some  remark  which  drew  from  the  lad  (who  had  not  been  intro- 
duced to  Hood)  the  remark — "  Ah!  that's  just  like  your  crying  up  those 
foolish  Odes  and  Addresses!"  "Coleridge"  (Hood  adds)  "was  highly 
amused  with  this  mal-d-propos,  and  without  explaining,  looked  slyly 


4S0  NOTES. 

around  at  me  with  the  sort  of  suppressed  laugh  one  may  suppose  to 
belong  to  the  Bey  of  Tittenj.  The  truth  was,  he  felt  naturally  partial 
to  a  book  he  had  attributed  in  the  first  instance  to  the  dearest  of  his 
friends,  as  appears  from  the  following  letter  to  Lamb," 

"  My  dear  Charles  : — This  afternoon,  a  little,  thin,  mean-looking 
sort  of  a  foolscap,  sub-octavo  of  poems,  printed  on  very  dingy  outsides, 
lay  on  the  table,  which  the  cover  informed  me  was  circulating  in  our 
book-club,  so  very  Grub  Strcetish  in  all  its  appearance,  internal  as  well 
as  external,  that  I  cannot  explain  hj  what  accident  of  impulse  (assuredly 
there  was  no  motive  in  play)  I  came  to  look  into  it.  Least  of  all,  the 
title,  Odes  and  Addresses  to  Great  Men,  which  connected  itself  in  my 
head  with  Rejected  Addresses,  and  all  the  Smith  and  Theodore  Hook 
squad.  But,  my  dear  Charles,  it  was  certainly  written  by  you,  or  under 
you,  or  una  cum  you.  I  know  none  of  your  frequent  visitors  capacious 
and  assimilative  enough  of  your  converse  to  have  reproduced  you  so 
honestly,  supposing  you  had  left  youreelf  in  pledge  in  his  lock-up  house. 
Gillman,  to  whom  I  read  the  spirited  parody  on  the  introduction  to 
Peter  Bell,  the  Ode  to  the  Great  Unknown,  and  to  Mrs.  Fry  ;  he  speaks 
doubtfully  of  Reynolds  and  Hood.  But  here  come  Irving  and  Basil 
Montagu. 

"TJiursday  night,  10  o'clock. — Xo!  Charles,  it  is  you.  I  have  read 
them  over  again,  and  I  understand  why  you  have  anon'd  the  book.  The 
puns  are  nine  in  ten  good — many  excellent — the  Newgatorij  transcen- 
dent. And  then  the  exemplum  sine  exemplo  of  a  volume  of  personali- 
ties and  contemporaneities,  without  a  single  line  that  could  inflict  the 
infinitesimal  of  an  unpleasance  on  any  man  in  his  senses ;  saving  and 
except  perhaps  in  the  envy-addled  bram  of  the  despiser  of  your  Lays. 
If  not  a  triumph  over  him,  it  is  at  least  an  ovation.  Then,  moreover, 
and  besides,  to  speak  with  becoming  modesty,  excepting  my  own  self, 
who  is  there  but  you  who  could  write  the  musical  lines  and  stanzas  that 
are  intermixed  ? 

"  Here  Gillman,  come  up  to  my  garret,  and  driven  back  by  the  guar- 
dian spirits  of  four  huge  flower-holders  of  omnigenous  roses  and  lionev- 
suckles — (Lord  have  mercy  on  his  hysterical  olfactories!  what  will  he 
do  in  Paradise  ?  I  must  have  a  pah*  or  two  of  nostril-plugs,  or  nose- 
goggles,  laid  in  his  coffin) — stands  at  the  door,  reading  that  to  M'Adam. 
and  the  washerwoman's  letter,  and  he  admits  the  facts.  Tou  are  found 
in  the  manner,  as  the  lawyers  say !  so,  Mr.  Charles !  hang  yourself  up, 


NOTES. 


481 


and  send  me  a  line,  by  way  of  token  and  acknowledgment.     ^ly  dear 
love  to  Mary.     God  bless  you  and  your  Unsbamabraniizcr, 

S.  T.  Coleridge." 

It  may  be  mentioned  here,  that  instead  of  feeling  "  the  infinitesimal 
of  an  unpleasauce"  at  being  Addressed  in  the  Odes  the  once  celebrated 
Mr.  Hunt  presented  to  the  Authors  a  bottle  of  his  best  "  Permanent 
Ink,"  and  the  eccentric  Doctor  Kitchener  sent  an  invitation  to  dinner. 

(2.)     Ode  to  Mr.  MAdam. 
:Mr.  M'Adam  was  the  inventor  of  a  new  mode  of  paving  streets, 
which  caused  in  its  day  more  newspaper  discussion  than  the  Russ  pave- 
ment in  ours.    AVe  copy  au  amusing  paragraph  on  this  subject  from 
the  Johii  Bull  : 

"  "\iVe  perceive  a  strong  disposition  in  certain  quarters  to  run  down 
the  system  of  3Iacadamization  ;  and  we  think  when  its  demerits  are  pro- 
perly pointed  out  and  enumerated,  there  will  be  no  opinion  but  one  on 
the  matter.  In  the  first  place,  it  appears  quite  clear  that  Macadamized 
streets  will  not  keep  dry  in  wet  weather  ;  this  is  a  fact  for  which  we  were 
hardly  prepared.  In  the  second  place,  if  incessant  rain  for  nearly  three 
months  pours  down  in  torrents  upon  the  coat  before  the  substratum  has 
time  to  settle,  it  seems  the  materials  subsequently  deposited  upon  that 
substratum  will  not  bind— but  on  the  contrary,  form  a  disagreeable  mud, 
unlike  in  its  color  and  appearance  that  beautiful  black  mud  in  which 
the  paved  streets  of  London  are  so  happily  fertile.  But  in  the  third 
place,  we  discover  that  those  streets  which  '  never  dry'  will  [u-hen  theij 
do)  become  so  dusty  as  to  powder  the  heads  of  lounging  dandies,  cover 
the  furniture  of  adjacent  houses,  and  not  only  put  out  the  eyes  of  the 
passengers,  but  absolutely  ruin  Lundy  Foot's  trade  in  Irish  snuif,  by  fill- 
ing the  noses  of  the  cockneys  gratis,  with  a  mixture  strongly  resemblmg 
that  popular  article  in  color,  flavor,  and  pungency. 

'•  "With  respect  to  the  quietude,  some  of  the  wags  in  the  city  say  that 
Mr.  M'Adam  has  falsified  his  own  name  in  the  process  of  producing  it. 
'  For  how,'  says  Mr.  Alderman  Thorpe, '  can  this  man  call  himself 
Louden-  Macadam,  when  his  object  avowedly  is  to  do  away  a  noise?' '' 

For  these  reasons  and  others  equally  cogent,  the  John  Bull  declares 
that  it  had  quitted  the  ]\Iac.u)amite3  and  joined  the  PREADAJtiTES, 
"  v\-ho  richly  deserve  the  name,  for  their  rigid  adherence  to  primeval  | 

notions  and  obsolete  doctrines  upon  this  particular  subject."  j 

This  mode  of  constructing  roads  has  not  been  adopted  to  much  extent 


482  NOTES. 

ia  the  United  States,  but  still  prevails  in  England.  A  recent  traveller 
says  that  Lord  Street  and  some  of  the  finest  thoroughfares  of  Liverpool, 
are  splendid  specimens  of  Macadamization,  and  that  during  a  fortnight's 
time  he  had  not  seen  dust  or  mud  on  any  of  them. 

(3.)     Odk  to  Mrs.  Fry. 

The  address  to  Mrs.  Fry  is  happily  conceived,  and  justly  exposes  the 
fjUj  of  compelling  persons  to  qualify  themselves  for  the  Refuge  for  the 
Destitute,  and  similar  charities,  by  being  committed  to  prison  for  crime. 
The  ode  advocates  prevention  as  superior  to  cure  in  its  advantages. — 
John  Bull. 

(4.)     Ode  to  Rich.vrd  Martix,  Esquire. 

^[r.  Martin  distinguished  himself  by  his  exertions  in  Parliament  for 
the  passage  of  a  biUto  prevent  cruelty  to  animals.  Hook  said  that  the 
only  persons  dissenting  from  the  general  approbation  he  met  with  were 
buUock-drivei?,  hackney  coachmen,  bull-baiters,  dog-fighters,  and  Gentle- 
men of  the  Opposition.  Lord  Ei-skine  was  the  originator  of  the  measure, 
wiiich  was  merely  revived  by  the  kind-hearted  member  for  Galway. 

(5.)     Address  to  Mr.  Dymoke,  the  Champion  of  England. 

The  following  extract  from  a  description  of  the  Coronation  of  George 
FT.,  from  the  London  Magazins  for  August,  1821,  will  serve  as  an  ex- 
planation of  this  Address: 

•■  At  the  end  of  this  course  the  gates  of  the  HaU  were  again  thrown 
open,  and  a  noble  flourish  of  trumpets  announced  to  aU  eager  hearts 
that  the  Champiox  was  about  to  enter.  He  advanced  under  the  gate- 
way, on  a  fine  piebald  charger  (an  ill  color),  and  clad  in  complete  steel. 
Tlie  plumes  on  his  head  were  tri-colored,  and  extremely  magnificent ; 
and  he  bore  in  his  hand  the  loose  steel  gauntlet,  ready  for  the  challenge. 
The  Duke  of  "Wellington  was  on  his  right  hand,  the  Marquis  r  f 
Anglesea  on  his  left.  "\^Tien  he  had  come  within  the  limits  of  the  Ha'l. 
h }  was  about  to  throw  down  his  glove  at  once,  so  eager  was  he  for  t -io 
fray,  but  the  Herald  distinctly  said,  •  "Wait  till  I  have  read  the  chal- 
1  nge,'  and  read  it  accordingly,  the  Champion  husbanding  his  valor  Tt 
a  few  minutes  : 

" '  If  any  person,  of  what  degree  soever,  high  or  low,  shall  dor.y  or 
gainsay  our  Sovereign  Lord  King  George  the  Fourth  of  the  United 


r---- 


NOTES.  4S3 

Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  ami  Ireland,  Defender  of  tlie  Faitb,  son  and 
next  heir  to  our  Sovereign  Lord  King  George  the  Third,  the  last  King 
deceased,  to  be  right  heir  to  the  Imperial  crown  of  the  United  King- 
dom, or  that  he  ouglit  not  to  enjoy  the  same,  here  is  his  Champion  who 
saith  that  he  lieth,  and  is  a  false  traitor  ;  being  ready  in  person  to  com- 
bat with  him,  and  in  this  quarrel  vs-ill  adventure  his  life  against  him  on 
what  day  soever  he  shall  be  appointed.' 

"■  At  the  conclusion  of  this  awful  challenge,  the  Champion  hurled  down 
his  gauntlet,  which  fell  with  a  solemn  clash  upon  the  floor.  It  rang  in 
most  hearts!  He  then  stuck  his  wrist  against  his  steeled  side,  as  though 
to  show  how  indifferent  he  was  to  the  consequence  of  his  challenge. 
This  certainly  had  a  very  pleasing  and  gallant  effect.  The  Herald,  in  a 
few  seconds,  took  up  the  glove,  delivered  it  to  the  squire,  who  kissed  it 
and  handed  it  to  the  Champion.  In  the  middle  of  the  Hall  the  same 
i  I  ceremony  was  performed ;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  royal  platform,  it  was 

!  j  a  third  time  gone  through.     The  King  then  drank  his  health,  and  me- 

i  1  thinks  with  real  pleasure,  for  the  Champion  had  right  gallantly  cou- 

j!  ducted  himself.     His  ^Majesty  then  sent  the  cup  to  him  ;  and  he,  taking 

I  {  it,  drank  to  the  King,  but  in  so  low  a  tone  that  I  could  only  catch  the 

i  J  meaning  by  the  tumultuous  shouts  of  the  people.    The  noise  seemed  to 

I  i  awaken  the  courage  of  his  horse,  but  he  mastered  his  steed  admirably. 

j  j  The  ceremony  of  backing  out  of  the  Hall  was  then  again  performed, 

ij  and  successfully,  with  the  exception  of  the  Marquis  of  Anglesea's 

Arabian,  whose  doubts  were  not  yet  satisfied,  and  he  was  literally  shown 
out  by  the  pages." 
i ;  In  Hairs  Account  of  the  Coronation  of  Henry  Till,  and  Katherine 

j  j  of  Arragon,  it  is  mentionetl  that  Sir  Henry  Dimmoke  appeared  as 

i  i  '•  Champion  of  the  King  by  tenour  of  his  inheritance."     The  office 

1 !  seems  to  have  remained  in  the  Dunmoke  family  till  the  time  of  our 

I  i  author. 

! }  The  germ  of  this  cvhlrcss  is  in  an  ode  which  wo  find  in  the  London 

li  Magazine  of  September,  1821.  and  which  is  worth  preserving. 

TUE    CHAMPIOX'S    FAREWELL. 

ij  Otium  cum  Dignitate. 

\  I  Here  I  bring  me  my  breeches,  my  armor  is  over  ; 

li  Farewell  for  some  tune  to  my  tin  pantaloons ; 

I !  Doulile-milled  kerseymere  is  a  kind  of  leg  clover, 

'  I  Good  luck  to  broad  cloth  for  a  score  or  two  moons  ! 


m 


iSi  NOTES. 

Here !  hang  up  my  lielmet,  and  reach  me  my  beaver, 

This  avoirdupois  weight  of  glory  must  fall ; 
I  think  on  my  life  that  again  I  shall  never 

Take  my  head  in  a  sauce-pan  to  "Westminster  Hall. 

Oh,  why  was  my  family  born  to  be  martial  ? 

'Tis  a  mercy  this  grand  show-ofF-fight-day  is  up  ! 
I  do  not  think  Cato  was  much  over-partial 

To  back  through  the  dishes,  with  me  and  my  cup. 

By  the  blood  of  the  Dymokes,  111  sit  in  my  lodgings. 
And  the  gauntlet  resign  for  "  neat  gentleman's  doe  ;" 

If  I  ride  I  will  ride,  and  no  longer  be  dodging 
My  horse's  own  tail  "twixt  Duke,  Marquis  &  Co. 

No  more  at  my  horsemanship  folks  shall  make  merry. 

For  I'll  ship  man  and  horse,  and  "  show  oQ'"'  not  on  shore ; 

Ko  funnies  for  me !  I  will  ride  in  a  wherry  ; 

They  feathered  my  skull,  but  I'll  feather  my  oar. 

So,  Thomas,  take  Cato  and  put  on  his  halter. 
And  give  him  some  beans,  since  I  now  am  at  peace  ; 

If  a  Champion  is  wanted,  pray  go  to  Sir  "Walter, 
And  he'll  let  you  out  Marmions  at  sovereigns  apiece. 

The  ladies  admired  the  piebald  nag  vastly, 

And  clapped  his  old  sober-sides  into  the  street  ; 

Here's  a  cheque  upon  Child,  so,  my  man,  go  to  Astley, 
Pay  the  charge  of  a  charger,  and  take  a  receipt. 

(6.)     Ode  to  Joseph  Grimaldi,  Senior. 

Grimaldi,  the  King  of  Clowns,  resigned  the  sovereignty  of  panto~ 
mime  in  July,  1828,  and  took  leave  of  the  public  at  Drury  Lane, 
nincss,  induced  by  over-exertion  in  his  fun,  was  the  cause  of  his 
retreat.  He  was  only  in  his  48th  year.  The  house  was  crowded  to 
the  roof.  A  gentleman  who  was  present  on  the  occasion  informs  us 
that  after  having  gone  through  some  of  the  most  surprising  feats  of 
agility  ever  witnessed,  when  Grimaldi  appeared  in  citizen's  dress  before 
the  curtain,  to  make  his  acknov/lcdgmeuts,  he  was  so  exhausted  and 
enfeebled  as  to  be  hardly  able  to  stand.  In  a  prose  sketch,  Hood  has 
given  an  account  of  his  last  interview  with  Grimaldi. 


NOTES. 


485 


Quick,  "  one  of  the  old  actor?,"  says  a  foot-note  to  the  author's 
edition,  "  is  still  a  performer  (but  in  private)  of  Old  Rapid,''  (182G.) 
As  Mackliu,  when  he  was  eighty  years  of  age.  played  lago,  it  may  well 
be  that  this  performer  in  private  of  Old  Rapid,  in  182G,  was  the  same 
Quick  who  more  than  half  a  century  before  played  the  Post  Boy  in 
Goldsmith's  comedy  of  the  Good-Natured  Man,  and  Tony  Lumpkin  in 
S!ie  Stoops  to  Conquer,  on  its  first  night.  Goldsmith  was  so  much 
pleased  with  his  success  in  the  latter  character,  that  he  adapted  a 
farce  from  the  French,  and  permitted  it  to  be  played  with  his  name  for 
Quick's  benefit  before  the  season  closed. 

(7.)     Ode  to  Sylvaxcs  Urbax. 

The  Ode  to  Sylvanus  Urban  contains  more  humor  and  less  quibbling 
than  any  other  portion  of  the  book,  and  surprises  us  that  a  man  able  to 
write  as  the  following  quaint  verses  are  written,  should  let  his  fancy 
run  riot,  and  have  recourse  to  the  worst  of  all  apologies  for  wit — pun- 
ning. Even  m  this,  the  fatal  propensity  here  and  there  appears,  but 
much  subdued ;  we  presume  by  the  seriousness  of  the  subject. — John 
Bull. 

(8.)     Address  to  the  Steam  Washixg  Compant. 

The  Patent  Steam  Washing  Company,  established  at  Phipps'  Bridge, 
Merton,  Surrey,  proved,  by  "  actual  experime4it,"  at  the  Company's 
works,  that  "  nothing  less  powerful  than  action  by  steam  will  extract 
from  linen  all  its  impurities."  Further  experiment,  we  believe,  has 
demonstrated  that  "  washing  by  hand  "  will  answer  all  practical  pur- 
poses, or  washerwomen  would  long  since  have  been  abolished. 

(9.)  Ode  to  Captain*  Parry. 
Captain  W.  E.  Parry  sailed  from  London  in  the  Hecla.  accompanied 
by  the  Fury,  on  his  third  voyage  of  discovery  to  th2  Xorth  Pole,  on 
the  9th  of  May,  1824.  It  was  the  least  successful  of  his  strenuous  and 
meritorious  efforts  to*  effect  a  northwest  passage  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific,  and  left  it  precisely  where  it  wa5  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
first  voyage.  The  British  Government  had  offered  a  reward  of  five 
thousand  pounds  sterling  to  the  first  vessel  that  should  approach  within 
one  degree  of  the  Xorth  Pole  ;  but  no  one  yet  has  "  stood  on  the  pivot 
on  which  this  globe  of  ours  turn?,  and  hoisted  the  British  flag  on  the 
most  remarkable  point  on  the  earth's  surface."  This  has  been  a  favor- 
ite enterprise  of  bold  navigators  from  the  time  of  Sir  Martin  Frobisher, 
who  replied  to  his  friend,  when  seeking  to  dissuade  him  from  the  at- 


I 


486  NOTES. 

tempt — "  It  is  the  only  thing  in  the  -world  that  is  left  yet  undone, 
■whereby  a  notable  mind  might  be  made  famous  and  fortunate." 

(10.)  Address  to  Maria  Darlingtox. 
The  allusions  in  this  Address  may  be  explained,  by  stating  that  in 
December,  1824,  an  action  was  brought  by  Miss  Foote,  the  celebrated 
actress,  against  Mr.  Hayne,  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  for  a  breach  of  pro- 
mise of  marriage.  Distinguished  counsel  were  employed  on  both  sides  ; 
among  others,  the  Attorney-General  for  the  plaintiff,  and  Brougham 
and  Scarlett  for  the  defendant.  It  was  proved  on  the  trial  that  she  had 
lived  for  five  years  under  the  protection  of  Colonel  Berkeley,  who  had 
seduced  her  under  a  promise  of  marriage,  and  by  whom  she  had  two 
children.  It  was  also  proved  that  the  Colonel  communicated  these 
facts  to  Mr.  Hayne,  and  that  the  proposed  marriage  was  broken  off  in 
consequence.  Subsequently,  however,  Mr.  Hayne  renewed  his  atten- 
tions and  his  promise  of  marriage,  which  he  refused  to  fulfil.  A  ver- 
dict was  found  for  the  plaintiff.  Damages,  £3,000.  Miss  Foote  in 
April,  1831,  became  the  Countess  of  Harrington. 

(11.)     Ode  to  "W.  Kitchener,  M.D. 
In  the  London  Magazine  for  October,  1821,  is  a  review  of  the 
Cook's  Oracle,  which  was  doubtless  from  Hood's  pen.     In  the  Xovem- 
ber  number  of  the  same  work  is  the  first  conception  of  the  Qde  io  the 
text. 

ODE   TO   DR.    KITCHENER. 

Ye  Muses  nine  inspire. 

And  stir  up  my  poetic  fire  ; 

Teach  my  burning  soul  to  speak 

With  a  bubble  and  a  squeak  ! 
Of  Dr.  Kitchener  I  fain  would  sing, 
TUl  pots,  and  pans,  and  mighty  kettles  ring. 

0  culinary  Sage ! 
(I  do  not  mean  the  herb  in  use. 
That  always  goes  along  with  goose,) 

How  have  I  feasted  on  thy  page ! 
'•  When  like  a  lobster  boiled  the  morn 

From  black  to  red  began  to  turn," 
Tin  midnight,  when  I  went  to  bed, 
And  clapped  my  tcwah-diddle*  on  my  head. 

*  The  Doctor's  composition  for  a  night-cap. 


KOTES.  ^S'' 


"Vnio  is  tliere  caunct  tell 
Thou  lead's!  a  life  of  living  \rell  ? 
"  TVliat  baron,  or  squire,  or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holv  Fry-er?" 
In  doing  -well  thou  must  be  reckon"d 
The  first,  and  Mrs.  Fry  the  second  ; 
And  twice  a  Job — for  in  thy  feverish  toils, 
Thou  wast  all  over  roasts,  as  well  as  boils. 

Thou  wast  indeed  no  dunce, 

To  treat  thy  subjects  and  thyself  at  once. 

Many  a  hungry  poet  eats 
His  brains  like  thee, 
But  few  there  be 

Could  live  so  long  on  their  receipts. 

TMiat  li\-ing  soul  or  sinner 

Would  slight  thy  invitation  to  a  dinner, 
Ought  with  the  Danaides  to  dwell. 

Draw  gravy  in  a  cullender,  and  hear 

For  ever  in  his  ear 
The  pleasant  tinklmg  of  thy  dinner  bell. 

Immortal  Kitchener  !  thy  fame 

Shall  keep  itself  when  Time  makes  game 
Of  other  men's.    Yea,  it  shall  keep  all  weathers, 
And  thou  shalt  be  upheld  by  thy  pen-feathers. 
Tea,  by  the  sauce  of  Michael  Kelly, 

Thy  name  shall  perish  never. 

But  be  magnified  for  ever, 
By  all  whose  eyes  are  bigger  than  their  belly ! 

Tea,  till  the  world  is  done 
To  a  turn,  and  Tune  puts  out  the  Sun, 
Shall  live  the  endless  echo  of  thy  name. 
But  as  for  thy  more  fleshy  frame, 
Ob,  Deaths  carnivorous  teeth  will  tittle 
Thee  out  of  breath,  and  eat  it  for  cold  victual 
But  still  thy  fame  shall  be  among  the  nations 
Preserved  to  the  last  course  of  generations. 


!r 


488  KOTES. 

Ah,  me  !  my  soul  is  touclioJ  with  sorro-w 

To  think  how  flesh  must  pass  away  ; 

So  mutton  that  is  warm  to-day 
Is  cold  and  turned  to  hashes  on  the  morrow ! 

Farewell !  I  would  say  more,  but  I 

Have  other  fish  to  fry. 

(12.)     Address  to  the  Deax  and  Chapter  of  Westmin-ster. 

The  "  very  reverend  "  managers  of  ^Ycstmiuster  Abbey  have  grown 
but  little  more  liberal  in  their  notions  since  this  address  was  written, 
though  they  have  "  reduced  the  fores."  The  ashes  of  Campbell  were 
deposited  in  the  centre  of  the  Poet's  Corner  in  1844,  but  many  years 
elapsed  before  his  friends  were  able  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  Dean 
and  Chapter  for  the  admission  of  his  statue.  On  May-day  evening,  in 
1855,  it  was  erected  in  the  presence  of  William  C.  Marshall,  the  sculp- 
tor, and  Dr.  Beattie,  Campbell's  biographer  and  friend.  In  mentioning 
this  fact,  on  the  authority  of  a  letter  of  Dr.  Beattie,  Mr.  Willis  adds, 
in  a  paragraph  in  the  Home  Journal :  "  It  will  be  recollected  that  not 
long  since  wc  mentioned  the  delay  and  difficulty  of  procuring  the  admis- 
sion of  this  statue  to  the  '  Poet's  Corner,'  the  Dean  of  Westminster 
refusing  the  formal  authorization  till  his  sacerdotal  fee  (of  two  hundred 
pounds)  was  first  paid.  Dr.  Beattie  finally  saw  this  fat  churchman 
satisfied,  and  the  statue  (the  subscriptions  for  the  carving  and  placing 
of  which  Dr.  B.  had  also  procured)  was  then  admitted  to  this  sanctuary 
of  England's  immortals." 

(13.)  Ode  to  H.  Bodkin,  Esq. 
Mr.  Bodkin  became  notorious  by  an  action  against  the  Times  news- 
paper, for  a  libel  touching  his  relations  to  the  Mendicity  Society. 
Scarlett,  for  the  defence,  contended  that  the  Society  was  mainly  pro- 
moted by  the  interference  and  assiduity  of  Mr.  B.,  and  was  kept  before 
the  public  eye  by  means  of  pamphlets,  pug's,  and  anniversary  dinners. 
He  compared  him  to  the  servant  of  Don  Manuel  Dordona,  immortalized 
by  Gil  Bias,  who  throve  on  his  master's  reputation  for  charity,  by  col- 
lecting money  to  be  distributed  by  him  among  the  poor,  and  putting  it 
in  his  own  pocket.  Bodkin  collected  money  from  all  quarters  for  the 
support  of  the  Society,  and  received  £500  a  year  for  his  own  services. 
The  jury  found  fi  verdict  for  the  plaintiff— SOs.  damages,  and  40s.  costs. 


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